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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
POEMS
OLD AND NEW
BT THE SAME AUTHOR
LIFE OF DANTON
With Portraits
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
POEMS
OLD AND NEW
BY
A. H. BEESLY
FORMERLY ASSISTANT MASTER AT
MARLBOROUGH COLLEGE
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
I912
4 099
NOTE
The present volume contains the poems published
by the late Mr Beesly in 1895 under the title of
Ballads and Other Verse, together with the shorter
pieces included in Danton and Other Verse (1896).
The long poem consisting of scenes from the life of
Danton has not been reprinted, with the exception of
a single lyric. Some later verses not hitherto published,
or only published in periodicals, have been added.
The poems which originally appeared in Longman's
Magazine, the Nation, the Wiltshire Advertiser,
and the Marlburian, are reprinted by the kind per-
mission of the editors of those journals.
It is hoped that a collected edition of Mr Beesl/s
ballads and lyrics in a cheap and convenient form will
be welcome to many of his old pupils and friends, and
will at the same time help to make these poems known
to a wider circle.
8S7'153
CONTENTS
BALLADS AND OTHER VERSE (1895)
DEDICATION .
1. SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS
2. A FEAT OF 1 794
3. A FEAT OF 1892
4. GENERAL KUKUSHKA
5. THE SACK OF ISMAIL
6. THE MUhArRAM MYSTERY-PLAY
7. THE regiment's RETURN
8. AN INVOCATION
9. A STREET CRY .
10. STONE-BROKE .
11. MORTMAIN
12. AVE DOMINE .
13. PROVERBS XXII. 2
14. A LAST CLIMB .
15. BEFORE A READING OF ' THE HECUBA '
16. A STROLL IN SPRING
17. ODIOSO CONCITA VENTO AEQUORA .
vti
3
3
7
10
13
15
18
21
23
25
27
29
33
36
39
41
46
47
Vlll
CONTENTS
18. THE TRUE LOVE
19. A FEUD OF THE DESERT
20. XPYSAVrHS KP0K02
21. WORDSWORTH'S SISTER .
22. AN OLD ENIGMA
23. A VIGNETTE OF VENICE .
24. AN OLD-FASHIONED SONG
25. EXTINCTUM CINEREM SI SULPHURE
26. APRIL 1893 ....
27. ZWEI HERZEN UND EIN SCHLAG
28. lONA
29. A SOUTH SEA ISLAND
30. FLEBILE LUDIBRIUM
31. STAGNATION ....
32. time's REVENGE
33. TEARS
34. A CHRISTMAS SONG .
35. ' AGE, I DO ABHOR THEE'
36. ' AGE, I DO DEFY THEE ' .
37. AN agnostic's APOLOGY .
38. TEMPORA MUTANTUR
39. A woman's LAST WORD
40. THE PLOUGHBOY'S SONG .
41. THE nihilists' SUICIDE .
42. DILEXIT
43. THE OLD school GATE
47
48
49
SO
51
51
52
TANGAS VIVET 53
CONTENTS
44. AN AUTUMN SCENE .
45. SLEEP ON NOW
46. A DEATH-BED .
47. A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
48. AMPHIBIOUS .
49. A WHALING SONG
50. A DAY BY THE SEA .
51. AD POPULUM PHALERAS .
52. ENNUYfiE.
53. A materialist's GLOSS .
54. GOOD FRIDAY, 1889 .
55. AN ACADEMY PICTURE
56. RECOGNITA
57. DIES IRAE
IX
PAGE
75
77
78
79
82
83
85
87
88
89
90
91
91
92
FROM D ANTON AND OTHER VERSE (1896)
1. SONG OF LUCILE DESMOULINS
2. ANDRE'S RIDE .
3. HAY-TIME
4. TIT FOR TAT
5. BULL POINT
6. A WILTSHIRE SCENE
7. FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM MORTIS TERRORS
CARENTEM
97
98
100
103
104
107
109
CONTENTS
ADDITIONAL POEMS
1. THE nationalist's APPEAL ....
2. EXIT BANDY
3. SPRINGTIME
4. THE MAYPOLE
5. WINDERMERE
6. MAY I9OI
7. AUGUST 1902
8. QUATRAIN
9. IN MEMORIAM : JOHN SHEARME THOMAS.
10. IN MEMORIAM : THEODORE LLEWELYN DAVIES
11. A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD
PAGE
117
119
121
122
123
125
126
126
127
130
130
NOTES .
133
BALLADS
AND OTHER VERSE
\
DEDICATION
To you who once scanned, star by star,
The heavenly host of English song
With me, nor thought the quest was long.
The stretch of exploration far ;
When first your youthful fancy caught.
It may be, some auroral light
To beacon you to infinite
Horizons of adventurous thought :
To you, in memory of old times.
And, ev'n if not a line should live,
Assured that you will yet forgive
The gift, I dedicate these rhymes.
I.
SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS.'
Sir Christopher Mings was a shoemaker's son.
He clouted a shoe ere he sighted a gun,
His mother was born aboard of a hoy,
And she suckled her lusty sailor-boy,
And she taught him to make
Such a name for her sake,
As caused the dour Dutch dogs to quake.
So here's to the name of Sir Christopher Mings,
A great name,— greater than my lord the King's ;
He fought and bled for England,
He's lying dead for England,
SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS
And foul fall shame
On England's fame,
When Englishmen forget the name
Of stout Sir Christopher Mings !
He swept the Channel from end to end,
From chalky Dover to flat Ostend,
And never a Dutch dog of them all
Durst yelp while he was Admiral :
He had such a whip
To make them skip,
If ever they ventured athwart his ship !
But worth must wither with Kings like Charles,
And the hands that kinged him were Albemarle's
' A shoemaker's son ! Odd's fish ! it is plain
'Twould anger the Stuart and Castlemaine.'
So London may fume,
And the fleet be in gloom,
But Rupert and Albemarle rule in his room.
'Twas on a Friday, the first of June,
We sighted the Dutch in the afternoon ;
Half-seas over at anchor they lay.
Between the Foreland and Dunkirk Bay :
And we swore not to shirk.
As we set to work,
Till we sent them flying to strong Dunkirk.
And from Friday noon until Monday night
The sea was a-fire with the roaring fight.
And the sun rose up, and the sunset fell,
And the calm stars shone on the raging hell ;
And the chain-shot swings,
And the grape-shot rings,
And fiercest of all fights Sir Christopher Mings.
SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS 5
Crash ! from the guns of the stubborn Dutch —
Sir Christopher Mings must walk with a crutch :
Crash ! through his shoulder : crash ! on his face —
Sir Christopher Mings is in evil case,
As he falls by the mast,
With his faith still fast
In Rupert — in Rupert, for rescue at last.
But Tromp and De Ruyter — they knew their trade,
And Monk was a madman, and Rupert delayed,
And the Swiftsure — the craven — sailed off to the
Nore,
And the Prince Royal ran on the Galloper shore,
And, shame to be said,
We turned and we fled.
Oh, well that Sir Christopher Mings lay dead !
They came to the Court, and old Rowley heard,
And, a while, old Rowley spake no word,
But his eye for a moment looked like a King's,
As it filled with a tear for Sir Christopher Mings,
The stoutest in fight,
The loyallest knight.
That ever drew sword for his land's birthright.
He was borne to his grave by his brave old tars,
Their faces all grim with the seaming scars :
Not a man of the throng was of noble strain —
My Lords were all courting the Castlemaine !
But the bravest and best
Of Englishmen pressed
To lay Sir Christopher Mings in his rest.
And scarce in his grave was their hero low,
When up stepped the bearers, a dozen or so :
6 SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS
Their eyes were all wet, though their teeth were set,
They had served him long, and they loved him yet —
And they spake this prayer.
With their grey heads bare,
To him they knew to be highest there.
' We are here, we twelve, we have nought but life,
And we pledge that life to our Captain's strife ;
In the blood of the Dutch we would slake our grief,
Give us a fire-ship, choose us a chief.
And we'll shrivel the wings
And burn out the stings
Of the wasps that killed Sir Christopher Mings.'
O Captain and Men, be your praises sung
Wherever men utter our Island's tongue.
And when for her life-blood her worst foe springs,
God send her a second Sir Christopher Mings !
Whate'er his degree.
With spirit as free,
To hold her inviolate Queen of the Sea.
So here's to the name of Sir Christopher Mings,
A great name — greater than my lord the King's ;
He fought and bled for England,
He's lying dead for England,
And foul fall shame
On England's fame,
When Englishmen forget the name
Of stout Sir Christopher Mings !
II.
A FEAT OF 1794.^
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
He came from La Vendee :
With chamois-hunters, high and low
He climbed the Alps, he scaled the snow :
Said he, ' I will not homeward go
Till I have found a way
To drive from out
His last redoubt
The foe we hold at bay.'
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
Five days he left our ken :
The sixth— and hark ! the thunderous cheers
As with his trusty mountaineers
In camp he comes to mock our fears
And make us once more men :
' He is not dead,'
The soldiers said,
' He's found the fox's den.'
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas
Said, ' Soldiers ! hark to me.
Though snow may blow and frost may freeze,
We've trapped the crafty Piedmontese,
We've tracked their lines on hands and knees.
There's none that's left to see ;
And now ere one
Short month is done
We'll capture Mont Cenis.'
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
What shifts of war he knew !
A FEAT OF 1794
With clasping-irons point-device
He shod our feet that o'er the ice
We scrambled up each precipice,
Then down like lightning flew,
Till day by day
That martial play
Steeled every nerve and thew.
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
At length our march was made,
('Twas on the 19th Floreal) :
We never saw, we never shall
See sterner sight : Death's arsenal
Amid the clouds seemed laid,
An Alp for wall,
And over all
The fortress-like stockade.
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas
Spake ere he led us on :
' My lads ! let no man's footstep trip
Nor halt to help, 'tis death to slip.
And let no outcry leave the lip
To tell a comrade's gone ;
We dare to-day
Nor stop nor stay
Until the post is won.'
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas
In silence waved his sword,
And up and up that grim ascent
With breathless sobs we struggling went,
And now we saw the rock was rent.
A FEAT OF 1794
And raced with one accord,
Whate'er might hap,
To cross the gap,
And win the ' First's ' reward.
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
His soldiers loved him well !
EVn then in helpless overthrow
From crag to crag, from snow to snow,
We saw three of our bravest go.
Yet dumb as death they fell ;
They had to die,
But not one cry
Aroused a sentinel.
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
His crowning hour was come.
No foe's eye watched, as all arrayed
In snow-white vesture we essayed
To clamber o'er the palisade,
Nor heard we beat of drum ;
The dim plateau
Was swathed in snow
And dumb as we were dumb.
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas
With force could match each wile.
' Too slow,' thinks he ; ' the foe awakes,'
And straight his foremost stormer takes
And tosses sheer across the stakes,
And smiles a hero's smile.
And still in sleep
And silence deep
Our foemen lay the while.
lO
Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas !
His hundreds were but three,
Yet at their shock the Piedmontese
Went down hke wheat-ears to the breeze ;
Oh when were stauncher men than these,
Or stouter chief than he ?
So here's Hurrah
For brave Dumas
And captured Mont Cenis !
HI.
A FEAT OF 1892.^
Lieutenant MacMunn his orders were brief,
' March straight for Sadon, 'tis the time for relief :
Your force is but small, only eighteen in all.
Be wary and hasten, or ill will befall,
There are rascals by scores on the scent of the stores.'
' The more the more fun,'
Thought Lieutenant MacMunn.
Trilirra ! trilirra ! the bold bugles rang,
Trilirra ! and into our saddles we sprang :
Our marching was slow, but we'd seen not a foe
As we camped in the brush with the second sun low :
And quiet and deep, that night, was the sleep
Of all except one —
Lieutenant MacMunn.
At dawn, as we mounted, the Jemadar said,
' Lieutenant MacMunn, let me ride on ahead.
With the horse I am on I'll be soon at Sadon.'
He stayed but to catch our ' Good luck ' and was gone :
And onward we pressed amid laughter and jest.
When — ' Hark, there's a gun ! '
Said Lieutenant MacMunn,
A FEAT OF 1892 II
' On, on for the river ! ' The river — good Lord !
It is broad, it is deep, there are foes at the ford :
In the trench, on their knees or their bellies, at ease,
They pour out a volley of bullets like bees :
Another — ping-ping — and the bees have a sting,
' Come, what's to be done?'
Said Lieutenant MacMunn.
And then to the Jemadar, ' Here you must stay,
And five along with you, to keep 'em in play :
Lower down we can try if a shallow be nigh :
Good luck, and we'll tickle their flank by-and-by.
You Goorkhas, you three, quick, march, follow me.'
And we went at a run
With Lieutenant MacMunn.
We plunged through the river — it rose to the breast —
And buzz came the bees again out of their nest,
But not a man sank, and safe at the bank,
One shake, and like hunters we rushed the rogues'
flank,
And they scuttled in fear, like rats, at our cheer.
' Not badly begun,'
Said Lieutenant MacMunn.
Then out spake a voice — and no coward's — and said,
' Begun ! — Ere it's ended we all shall be dead.
Back, back, while you may, 'twere madness to stay.
Not twice the men with us could hold on their way.'
' Oh come, my lads, come, remember the rum,
Sadon has got none,'
Said Lieutenant MacMunn.
So on through the jungle we hasted amain,
And whizz came the bullets' thin whistle again ;
All round us they rung, every bush had a tongue,
And down went the Jemadar shot through the lung,
12 A FEAT OF 1892
And a twinge and a twist, and it's ' There goes a wrist,
But still I've got one,'
From Lieutenant MacMunn.
We bound up their wounds and we mounted our man,
And charged them again, and again the rogues ran.
' You'll follow me well ? ' 'We will, Sir,— to hell ! '
And we bundled them out of the jungle, pell mell,
And fast as they made, from stockade to stockade.
Each web was unspun
By Lieutenant MacMunn.
Night fell, and the track in the darkness was lost.
And bridge there was none, with a flood to be crossed,
And when we were through what else could we do
But, faint though we were, fall to fighting anew ?
And still, on and on, not a sight of Sadon !
' Good God, for the sun ! '
Said Lieutenant MacMunn.
Then all of a sudden a mule gave a snort.
And we burst out a-cheering, for there was the fort :
Yes, there, not a doubt, and quick to our shout,
And hip-hip-hurrahing the boys bustled out.
' So here you are, come ! ' ' And here is the rum.
They've robbed us of none,'
Said Lieutenant MacMunn.
They laughed till they cried, and they cried till they
laughed,
And 'The boys with the rum' was the bumper they
quaffed.
And all of them swore it was worth all and more.
To see the old daredevil pluck to the fore.
And England had still, for working her will.
So gallant a son
As Lieutenant MacMunn.
13
IV.
GENERAL KUKT^SHKA.*
KUKUSHKA calls, ' The spring is here,
The winter's gone, the summer's near.'
The mellow message everywhere
Swells the last breath of April air :
The heights of Oural catch the word.
And Baikal's sleeping heart is stirred :
O'er ice-locked steppe and frozen fen
It thrills to sad Saghalien :
By Neva's bank and Yenisei
'Tis flung back from each tinkling sleigh :
And round each steaming samovar.
Through all the far realms of the Czar,
In tent, and hut, and palace-hall.
There's rapture at Kukushka's call.
Kukiishka calls- — the exile hears.
And turns to hide his starting tears ;
The foul air of his dungeon seems
One moment purified, in dreams.
One moment — and in fancy he
Can breathe, as only breathe the free ;
Or stifFning from Kara's bleak mine,
That rich note warms him as with wine ;
He'll chafe no more beneath the chain,
No more he'll brook a slave's disdain :
Better to die by scourge or shot
Than hear that voice and heed it not ;
A dastard he whom death appals
When General Kukiishka calls.
Kukushka calls, but not to all
Comes comfort at Kukushka's call.
14 GENERAL KUKUSHKA
Across the misty leagues of snow
Behold the chain-gang wending slow —
Cling-clang, cling-clang — with stumbling tread
And eyes of death, and limbs of lead,
Like beasts that know the drover's goad,
Silent they stagger on their road :
Or should some pitying ear avail,
Break forth in melancholy wail :
' We are driven from the city
To the wilderness :
Little Father, have compassion
On our sore distress.
' We are footsore, we are weary.
We have come from far :
We are broken by the anger
Of our Lord the Czar.
'You have wives and little children.
We have lost them long :
By the love that we must forfeit.
Hear our begging-song.^
' We are very cold and hungry,
Spare a little bread :
If you will not have compassion
We shall soon be dead.
' We are on the road to bondage
In the sunless mine :
We are fainting — of your plenty
Spare a little wine.
' We are very sorrowful.
Help us on our way •
Turn not from us, Little Father,
Pity us, we pray.'
15
So wailing, o'er the waste of snow,
The chain-gang passes row by row,
And row by row they still prolong
Their melancholy begging-song,
Till lost to eye and ear again
They're swallowed by the deathlike plain.
In vain, O bird of mellow throat,
For these thy resurrection-note :
As ashes on the coffin fall,
So sounds for them Kukushka's call.
V.
THE SACK OF ISMAIL.^
' Take I small, ^
It is my ivill.''
I STOOD beside our General
When that stern message came.
And once and twice he read, with all
His warrior heart aflame ;
Younger the wrinkled visage grew,
Straighter the stooping form,
And fire flashed from his eyes' dim blue
As clouds are lit in storm :
'We hail,' he cries, 'our Mother's will.
We swear to capture Ismail.'
That month we stood on Danube's bank
Hard by the leaguered Town,
But saw it not — in vapours dank
The fortress veiled its frown,
i6 THE SACK OF ISMAIL
When swift a sudden wind arose
And swept the mists away,
And lo ! our brethren's camp, and close
The grim Turk held at bay :
And thrilled to heaven, as thunders thrill.
Our fierce ' Hurrah for Ismail.'
Oh, dark and drear December's days,
And hard our comrades' lot.
But in the answering cheer they raise
Their woes are all forgot :
No more they reck of hunger, cold,
And suffering sore and long ;
Each haggard eye gleams bright and bold.
Each quailing heart beats strong,
' Suvorofif' hark ! ' Suvoroflf,' till
The shouts are heard in Ismail.
' Now yield thee, Aidos Mehemet,
And yield ere set of sun :
The fish that's in the fisher's net
Its fate as soon might shun.'
But ere that winter sun is low
Hath Aidos answer given,
'The Danube flood shall cease to flow,
The stars shall fall from heaven.
Ere thou, to work the she-wolfs will,
Set foot in sacred Ismail.'
As each man fiercely clutched his sword
While thus the herald spoke.
The silence of the council-board
Our youngest captain broke :
' Arise ! to arms ! delay 's disgrace,
Let's take the town or die.'
THE SACK OF ISMAIL 17
Suvoroff kissed him on the face
And cried exultingly :
' To-day for prayer, the next for drill,*
The third day woe to Ismail ! '
The third day yet was darkness, when
Heaven blazed with rushing light ;
Again the signal, and again
The rocket's fiery flight ;
Then, in the after hush, you heard
A mustering army's hum,
And ere the dreaming Turk has stirred,
Right on his lair we come,
And all the darkling air we fill
With shouts of ' Death or Ismail.'
Our General pointed to the fosse :
' My lads, the ditch is deep,
But he who wins his way across
Has harvest rich to reap.
And were the trench as trenches ten,
And twice as high the wall.
Yet would ye quit yourselves like men
That fail not though they fall.
Sons of my heart ! your oath fulfil,
On, on with me, for Ismail ! '
Then all along those lines of fire
To arms the Moslem flew,
Afar the cannon roared, and, nigher,
A hundred bugles blew ;
And now the cross is backward borne.
And now the crescent wanes.
And fast the wounded fall, as corn
Levelled by summer rains,
2
i8
And, o'er their comrades' corpses, still
The stormers rush on Ismail.
That livelong day the tide of war
Now ebbed, now flowed, in blood,
And still the Turk's swift scimitar
The Cossack's lance withstood :
They sallied from the Bender Gate,
They thrust our ladders low,
Like fiends they fought us, hate for hate,
Like soldiers, blow for blow,
But, when the stars rose calm and still,
Our standard waved o'er Ismail.
O shining stars, what sights of dread
Ye watched, ere broke the morn :
The tears by weeping women shed,
The conqueror's brutal scorn.
The babe slain at the mother's breast,
The human beast of prey
Which raging, roamed, and would not rest
With strength still left to slay.
With strength to slay, and blood to spill-
Woe and alas for Ismail !
VI.
THE MUHARRAM MYSTERY-PLAY.^
Hang the mirrors round the wall,
Trim the lamps and light them all.
O'er the great white laver's rim
Pour in water to the brim,
Fire the brazier heaped with pine :
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
THE MUHARRAM MYSTERY-PLAY 19
All is ordered well ; advance,
Ye who lead the sacred dance,
Circling-wise be your array,
Leftward let your circle sway :
Allah lend you aid benign !
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
Let not hp or footstep fail,
Loud and louder raise your wail.
Fast and faster beat the breast,
Beat and die, — your death is blest :
Drunk ye are, but not with wine :
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
Not with wine your flesh is red.
Blest the blood your veins have shed,
Fallen are some that shall not rise.
Fallen, but passed to Paradise.
Now your mystic ring untwine :
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
Lift your eyes up from the dust,
Lo ! your Lord in whom ye trust,
He is marching for the war.
Naked shines his scimitar.
Fair his face, his form divine.
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
20 THE MUHARRAM MYSTERY-PLAY
See his weeping children kneel :
Sore and sad their last appeal :
' Hast thou then thy babes forgot ?
Leave them not, oh, leave them not :
All our lives are one with thine.
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein ! '
Who is she that makes no moan.
Veiled and still as carven stone ?
' Leave thee ! — nay, 'tis Allah's will,
Allah's hest must all fulfil,
Wife, thy rebel love resign.'
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
Changed the scene — our Lord is dead.
All the traitor's work has sped.
Throng we to the rampart-gate,
There the funeral pomp to wait,
Soon its bickering spears will shine :
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
Lo ! the bier, and lo ! his son
Clasps him as he lies thereon,
And a dove beside him clings
White and lovely, but its wings
Spots of blood incarnadine :
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
21
Wild our wail, and hoarse our cries,
Tears rush from our strairiing eyes ;
Booth and stall and alley throb
With the storm of shriek and sob
Echoing on from line to line :
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
Prince and Hero, fare thee well !
Be thy slayer accurst in hell !
Thee the glorious Houris greet,
Thee shall Islam's sorrow sweet
In its heart of hearts enshrine !
Hossein ! Hossein !
Ah, ah, Hossein !
VII.
THE REGIMENT'S RETURN.
What sets the steeples reeling
With the mad bells pealing ?
What stirs the exulting cheering that is rising to a roar ?
Why is every man forsaking
His forgotten task, and making
From the counter and the market to the shore ?
'Tis the bugling and the drumming
That tells the lads are coming,
Are coming, are coming
From the war.
Oh, the weary months of waiting !
Oh, the weeping, and the hating
Those that ruled the bloody game,
And the strong who did the wrong !
Theirs the crime, be theirs the shame !
22 THE REGIMENT'S RETURN
But to those that only knew
What a soldier's sword should do,
Our thanksgiving and honour we outpour,
As we welcome them coming,
The gallant lads coming,
Our own lads coming
From the war.
Quick, take your stand,
To shake them by the hand
As they step fast by,
'Mid the glory of July,
In the old, bold manner,
— Tossing feather, blowing banner,
Rent and reddened as we knew it not of yore,—
From a score of battles coming,
With their tattered colours coming,
The gallant lads coming
From the war !
With a swinging tramp they go,
Row by row,
And a hundred march as one.
All the scabbards and the epaulettes a-glitter in the
sun.
All the handkerchiefs a-flutter from each window and
door :
Little Jack upon your shoulder
Will remember, when he's older,
How he saw the lads coming.
The gallant lads coming,
The glad lads coming
From the war.
Who is she that falls a-weeping
For a lover not returning ?
Oh, shame, and still your yearning,
Be proud of him who's sleeping !
You have heard his glorious story.
Would you rob him of his glory.
Of the glory he has won for evermore ?
But for him they'd not be coming,
To-day not be coming,
The happy lads coming
From the war.
They pass, and all the cheering
Is dying from our hearing
With the martial music's sound
And the tramp that shook the ground ;
And the crying crowds which press them,
With a last ' God bless them,'
Scatter, each man to his calling as before.
But with hearts beating higher.
And eyes still afire,
That saw the lads coming.
The gallant lads coming.
The dear lads coming
From the war.
VIII.
AN INVOCATION.
O Snow, cease snowing,
O East, cease blowing :
Come, welcomest, best
Soft Wind of the West,
Unfetter, unharden
Our frost-fast garden,
24 AN INVOCATION
Come and unfold
— Firstling of Spring —
The Aconite's gold,
And the goldener blaze
That the Crocus displays ;
With thy small, warm, slow drops,
Come, waken the Snowdrops ;
Bid Scilla break through
Her fostering earth
To earliest birth
Of heavenliest blue :
Come, and fill up,
Fill to the brink,
Purple and pink
Hepatica's cup ;
Let Arabis show
A brighter, whiter, delightfuller snow.
Into a pleasance
Change by thy presence
Hedgerow and lane,
That, ev'n where the shade is.
Glad Lords and Ladies
Hail thee again :
Loosen the chain
That winter has set
On Primrose, Anemone, Violet ;
To half-hid Daffodil
Whisper thy will ;
Make green grass greener still,
And crimsoner the crimson-petalled Daisies ;
So shall the little children swell thy praises.
25
Soon to thy calling
The Swallow
Will follow,
And rising and falling
On wings like its song
The Lark to the heavens will earth's rapture prolong ;
And the Rooks will be breaking
The twigs for nest-making,
' Caw, caw ! ' a busy note
Thick bursting from each throat :
And gently and low as with love half-aswoon
The Ringdove will croon :
And the Plover
Will hover
Aloft as a lure,
That no eye discover
Her nest on the moor :
And over and over
Bold Blackbird and Thrush will be trilling and trying
The music to set all their sweethearts a-sighing.
Come then, and mock not our hope grown stronger.
Linger no longer,
O welcomest, best
Soft Wind of the West !
IX.
A STREET CRY.
' Fresh watercresses ! '
' Fine fresh watercresses ! '
Rhythmical, sweet.
In the dust and the heat,
And the reek that oppresses
The long stone street,
26 A STREET CRY
Echoes her cry
As the girl goes by :
Nearer, you hear her
Unwearied persistence,
Till far in the distance
The notes of it die.
And one, who has lain
Long vigil keeping,
Through days that were pleasureless,
Nights that were measureless.
Mazes of fever
And mists of the brain,
Wakes from brief sleeping,
And smiles as she passes,
Smiles, and again
Slumbers, to weave her
Cry into his dreams :
And, dreaming, he seems,
In his dear land of Devon,
Stretched on green grasses
Beneath its blue heaven,
By well-beloved streams,
Crystalline, pure
From the Tor and the Moor,
With laughter and leap
Across meadow and lea
Rushing down to the sea.
How it lives in his sleep —
All the flash and the dance
Where the lithe minnows play
In shallow and hollow,
And jewelled wings glance
At the sweep of the swallow.
27
And long mosses sway
Far down in the cool
Sudden depth of the pool !
And the whitethorn has made
Its precinct of shade
For the bank's mimic bay,
The whitethorn— and in it
Is lilting the linnet,
Unstayed, unafraid,
All the midsummer day,
Till sunset-glow flushes
The points of the rushes.
Sunset ! 'tis streaming
Into his chamber
In scarlet and amber :
No dream he is dreaming,
But wakes from his vision
Unfevered, unaching,
(O rapture of waking,
O moment Elysian !),
And, smiling, he blesses
The girl with the cresses.
X.
STONE-BROKE.
Two battered hurdles,
A heap of stones,
A hayband wrapping
The hurdles' bones.
A sack in tatters,
And in it thrust
Straw half rotten.
And grass half dust.
28 STONE-BROKE
There, through the autumn,
A grey old man
Began to hammer
Ere day began ;
And there, while hngered
A ray of hght,
He sat and hammered
From dawn till night.
And through December
He hammered still,
Though cold, and ragged.
And old, and ill.
' The House ? ' 'No, better
To die instead,
Or go on living
On naught but bread.'
And so through all of
The long grim frost
He worked, as grimly,
Counting the cost.
The windy wayside
Was bare and bleak.
The icy East blew
Week after week.
His eyes grew dimmer,
His back more bent,
Slower and slower
His hammer went.
But he hammered early.
He hammered late.
29
Till his heap had gathered
To yonder gate.
He hammered, hammered
Till all was done,
The whole heap finished
To its last stone.
The last stone broken,
He did not stir :
He seemed a watcher
Or listener.
He sat, nor heeded
The cold snows blown —
His own heart broken.
Himself a stone.
XL
MORTMAIN.
' Let the dead past,' who hath said,
' Bury its dead ' ?
The past is present with us still
For well or ill :
And still and still will memories,
Like ghosts, arise.
Of far-off hours with rapture fain
Or scarred with pain :
Familiar footsteps on the floor
Sound as of yore.
The door-hinge turns, and lo ! there stands,
With outstretched hands,
One who, it seems, just now had left
You unbereft.
30 MORTMAIN
And close you clasp in your embrace
A mother's face,
— With that dear gaze of yearning care,
Half love, half prayer —
Or sister's, or, as once she smiled,
A little child
Who, after, glorified your life,
As worshipped wife :
Till poor seems all that's left of bliss
By what you miss.
Or darker visions of the night
Your soul affright,
And ' Take, O God,' your pale lips pray,
' Those eyes away.
Those stern eyes, with the dreadful stare
Of fierce despair.'
You wronged that man, you stole his fame.
You smirched his name,
Took all he gave, then passed him by,
Or let him lie
— Poor Lazarus — while at your doors
Dogs licked his sores.
Or else, yourself, with sad self-scorn.
You see re-born.
And shrink, beholding in a son
Deeds you have done :
In vain you dreamt long years would cleanse
Your old offence,
And how upbraid him, when the mud
Was in his blood?
Your reckless rage, your sullen mood.
Your will that stood
Infirm, and straight to pleasure's charms
Laid down its arms,
MORTMAIN 31
You own in him, with doubled force
Of old remorse.
Ah, who shall say what agonies
And stifled cries
Are his, who struggling with his past
Has learnt at last
The strife is vain, and he cannot
Relax one jot
The serpent coils still tightening,
That round him cling !
If haply he could right old wrongs,
Perchance he longs
To publish in the market-place
His hid disgrace.
And stand forth by some Hester Prynne,
With all her sin
(Made his) emblazoned on her breast.
Scarlet, confessed :
But shame were not atonement — nay,
'Twere worse that way,
And should the sower own the seed
'Twould spread the weed :
He can but bear as best he can
His own soul's ban.
Abiding in the gathering gloom
Relentless doom.
Whatever snow-bright wonderland
His eyes once scanned.
With radiant confidence to climb
Its peaks sublime,
He sees no more, no more may wrest
From life its best,
But slow steps on the sands must set
Of vain regret.
32 MORTMAIN
And grope for polestar, grown for him
Fitful and dim.
What's left him then ?— This, not to be
A Pharisee,
And not forget sloughed sins, as might
The hypocrite ;
To cast no stone, to swell no cry
Of 'Crucify':
And should men in his praises speak
Of strength (how weak !)
To hug the vulture at his breast
As welcome guest.
It may be he shall never feel
Will fused to steel,
Nor ever, all a lifetime through.
Faults done undo,
Nor ever know a heart so sure
And self-secure,
That, should temptation, twenty-fold
Its strength of old,
Assail him, yet would guard the gate
Inviolate.
But, ev'n as seven years mould afresh
A man's whole flesh,
The coward soul may bold become
For martyrdom,
The sordid soar, the fraudful prize
Truth more than lies.
So, though the past be unforgot
And buried not.
The wider wave of aftertime
May purge its slime,
And — so men strive — howe'er they fall,
There's hope for all.
33
XII.
ave domine.
Father.
At last 'tis come : ye heard our Jailer's words.
One hour or less of life, and lo ! 'tis ours,
The crown of glory incorruptible.
Methinks already I behold the gates
Of pearl, the golden streets, the wall all gems,
And glorious companies of Shining Ones
Descending from the City of our God
To bid us welcome, when we have put off
This mortal for our immortality.
I thank thee, O my God, for all Thy grace,
And chiefly that Thou boldest these my sons,
—Bone of my bone and heart-blood of my heart,—
Worthy, with me, to be Thy witnesses.
Come, then, my children, let us praise the Lord
That He hath chosen us, and with His praise
Still on our lips, exulting wait our call
To the arena.
Son.
Father, hark ! that roar
Unmans me, 'tis the Libyan lion's note.
And I bethink me how I heard it first.
And how first saw the beast, and what befell.
'Twas midsummer, and by the upland spring
Our flocks were well-nigh watered, and, forespent,
Under the shadow of a giant oak
Which edged th' adjacent forest, drowsing, lay
Our mother's brother. Brooding sultriness
Fevered the air with taint of coming storm,
3
oA AVE DOMINE
I
And 'neath black clouds the sun sank sullenly : '
I watched them, wondering where the storm would
break,
When lo ! I saw the thicket stir, and forth,
Roaring, as if indeed the sky were riven,
Sprang, with the splendour of a thunderbolt
Out of a quiet heaven, the forest beast.
His lurid eyes shot sparks of fell green fire.
And menace heaped the masses of his mane.
As on our kinsman's form resistlessly
He lit, and, gripping, bore him forestward :
Oh, what a shriek it was which clove the night !
And swift we snatched our arms and followed him,
Still tracking him by dreadful gouts of blood.
And once we saw him with his burden dropped
Mumbling it as a house-cat mouths a mouse.
And as he sighted us, and gripped again.
Growling, we heard the horrid crunch of bones.
And once and twice again that woeful shriek,
And, though through all that night we followed him.
We saw him not nor heard him any more.
Oh, father, I am young, how shall I front
That fate, unflinching, when to dream of it
Ev'n now turns sleep to madness ? Lo ! I see
The bars drop, and the lion leap, and all
The heathen throng with pitiless set eyes
Aflame with lust of blood. Oh, father !
Thy face, I know, will then turn heavenwards.
And tranquilly— as when at eventide
Thou kneltest on the desert sands, alone,
In olden days— thy lips will breathe the prayer
' Of Him who pleaded for His murderers,
' Forgive them, for they know not what they do.'
AVE DOMINE 35
But I shall cower, and wail, and shame myself
And thee, and do dishonour to our God.
Father.
Courage ! my son ; it shall be given thee then
What thou shalt do, yea, even in that hour
Shall courage fill thee other than thine own.
And by thy side shall stand the Anointed One,
To other eyes than thine invisible,
Smiling, and in His hands the Crown and Palm,
And swiftly, in the twinkling of an eye.
All pain shall pass to rapture, and the yells
Soften to angel-songs and harps of heaven.
Wherefore, my son, and all my sons, once more
Ere yet the call comes, with united voice
Uplift the strain I taught you yesternight.
Not doubting that our God will grant our prayer.
Lord God of Sabaoth, Thou
Hearest prayer, we pray Thee now
Leave us not in our distress.
Help us in our helplessness :
When from all the Circus come
Yells that mock our martyrdom.
When the furious, glowering beast
Gloats upon his quivering feast.
By each torment of Thy cross
Teach us then that life were loss,
By each memory of Thy pain
Teach us that to die is gain.
When we shrink from claw and fang,
Teach us, thou that knew'st the pang
Of the spear that pierced Thy side,
Of the nail that crucified,
36
Yea, by all Thine agony,
Teach Thy servants how to die.
Lord God of Sabaoth, Thou
God that hearest, hear us now !
Lord God of Sabaoth, hear,
Comfort us, and calm our fear :
We would bear, like Thee, the rude
Railing of the multitude :
Patiently, as Thou hast worn.
We would wear Thy crown of thorn :
We would share Thy bloody sweat,
Watch with Thee on Olivet :
From Thy scourge we would not shrink,
Of thy bitter cup would drink :
But our flesh is faint and frail,
Help us, lest our hearts should quail :
By Thine own soul-stricken plea
'Why hast Thou forsaken Me?'
Leave us not, sweet Saviour, lest.
If we lean not on Thy breast,
Mortal fear our faith should quell
In the strife with Death and Hell :
Aid us, save us from such fear :
Lord God of Sabaoth, hear !
Jailer. Christians, come forth ! They clamour for
you. Come !
XIIL
PROVERBS XXII. 2.
Look, friends, for awhile, with me
From my casement on the quay.
PROVERBS XXII. 2 37
Leaning by the lamp-post stands
A silent man, with sinewy hands,
With sinewy hands, but ashen face,
On it hunger's haggard trace.
Like a death-knell to his soul
Sounds the ceaseless carriage-roll.
He can see, as each goes by,
Ladies loll luxuriously :
Tiny greyhounds, sleepy pugs
Swaddled, on their laps, in rugs :
Footman, coachman, caped in fur,
Madam's self in miniver :
Every shop a flare of light.
With the wide world's riches dight.
And the fresh-lit lamps afar
Blazing, semicircular.
Tier on tier, and seaword borne
To the crescent's farthest horn.
As he lingers on the quay.
By the sullen-plunging sea,
Hark ! the band begins to play,
— Brisk and tuneful minstrels they :
To the merry measure set.
Harp and horn and clarionet.
Ringing from the hills around.
Cheer the fisher, seaward-bound.
With their rising, falling notes.
Rising, falling, with the boats.
38 PROVERBS XXII. 2
But the song of seraphim
Were but jangled noise to him :
Drowned seem all sweet sounds to be
In the sullen-plunging sea.
Otherwhere his thoughts have flown,
To the room he calls his own,
Where a fever-wasted wife
Feeds an infant with her life :
Where, beside them, pine for bread
Other little ones half dead :
Where through rotting roof and door
Rain and snow of winter pour.
And the only music known
Is the night-wind's monotone.
Now the moon is overcast —
Now the man has moved at last,
Muttering— is it prayer or curse?
Prayer or curse, the Universe
Echoes it since time was young,
Echoes it in every tongue :
Hope has never hushed it once,
That sad voice, of millions
Crushed by fate's wheels ironshod.
Still upbraiding a deaf God.
39
XIV.
A LAST CLIMB.
Once more, O Giant of Hills,
Granite-strewn, grey with the storms
And ruin of infinite time,
I stand on thy summit, and gaze
On the pageant outspread at my feet.
Fairer than ever the scene
To eyes that shall see it no more :
Blue is the far-flashing sea,
Blue every motionless tarn.
Heaven has no blot on its blue :
Thinly a wreath, as of smoke,
Wraps one peak in its folds,
Leaving the crest of it clear :
Everywhere else is the blaze
Of an all-irresistible sun,
Rain-released, radiant, supreme.
Hail to thee, life-giving Hill,
Healer austere and august
Of the soul that has pined in the plain !
Sharp thine elixir and strong,
Blent of the winds and the sea 1
Weary no longer, I hail,
In the triumph of overcome toil.
Splendour of distances, deep
Draughts of ineffable air.
Vigour of fast-ebbing strength,
Freshness of far-away years,
Youthfuller fancy, return.
Yea, O thou Ancient of Days,
In the might of thine age I am young,
40 A LAST CLIMB
Strong in the strength of thy rocks,
Glad, as when first as a boy
All of thy vision I saw,
— And rejoiced — as I see it to-day
Solemn, majestic, unchanged :
Little thou knowest of change.
Years are as moments to thee,
Gauntly thou fightest the frost,
Grimly deridest the rain.
Even the lightnings unleashed
Strike thee and scarce leave a scar ;
Drear is thy warfare and lone,
Seldom the song of a bird,
Seldom the lowing of kine
And the manifold cries of the vale
Rise to thy kingdom of cloud :
Even the dizzy cascade
Poised by yon emulous heights
Over the roaring ravine
Seems but the silence of snow
Sun-scorning, waterless, dumb :
Only the elements' voice
Visits thee — voice of the heaven.
Voice of the spheres in concent,
Voice of the discord of storms :
And to the spirit of man
Surely a note of that voice
Stored in thy mystical stones
Speaks, and it answers, and knows
Life elemental its own.
Life that was life before birth.
Life that with death cannot die.
Yea, in thy presence sublime.
41
All of man's being responds
Twofold in rapture to thine,
Rapture of sense, in the pomps
Of the earth and the sea and the sky.
Rapture unknown to the flesh,
Passing all measure of words,
As of one who should walk for a while,
Translated, transfigured, entranced,
Understanding the secret of Time,
Unamazed by the tears of the world.
In heaven of the heavens, with a God.
Hill that I love, may I still.
Yielding my sleep to thy spells.
Commune with thee in my dreams !
Now 'tis the hour of farewell ;
Slowly the shadows advance,
Slowly thy garment of light
Leaves thee, and lake after lake,
Peak after peak disappears,
And the sea is a phantom of mist,
As I leave thee alone with the night.
XV.
A READING OF THE HECUBA.
Philopolis, an Athenian, loq.
I.
This is the day and this the hour.
The sun
In all the gardens of the palaces
Of Rome hath half assuaged his noonday heat :
Pleasant it is amid the ilices,
In hearing of the mellow fountain-plash.
To miss the throbbing streets, the glare and roar
42 A READING OF THE HECUBA
Of the great Forum : and, an hour or two,
To dream that this is Athens, this the slope
Of blossoming Hymettus, and with eyes
Half-closed to think the light between the leaves
Ilissus twinkling, not the sullen roll
Of yellow Tiber : and, as yonder shafts
Gleam from the sunset on the distant hills,
To fancy those far spaces the blue sea
By fresh breeze blown to foam round Salamis.
0 Athens, home divine of godlike men.
Mother ! when shall I see, no more in dreams,
Thy sun, and seas, and glorious shrines again ?
This Rome is as the body to the mind :
1 loathe this barbarous pomp, these sottish feasts,
These trampling Triumphs, and these Senators,
Tyrants to all beneath them, supple slaves
To the grim lord of all, Tiberius.
Yesterday, as I chanted a sweet song
Of Sappho in the moonlight, a thick voice.
Dull with the fumes of gross Falernian,
Scoffed at me, ' Greek, the glory of thy bard
Must pale in lustier presence : stay that strain,
And listen to our laughing Satirist,
Gay minstrel of the many-metred Ode ! '
And then he hummed a tinkling city-song —
Metallic, unmelodious, like our strains
As note of sparrow is to nightingale's.
Oh, had he heard the full-mouthed harmony
Of our immortal masters, even he
In that ethereal music had awoke
To nobler sense. But I, Philopolis,
Was fired to magnify our mighty names —
^schylus, Sophocles, Euripides,
A READING OF THE HECUBA 43
Kings crowned on golden thrones of Tragedy :
With many another singer of our race,
Of strength sublime or lyric loveliness —
Tyrtaeus, who from Spartan flint struck fire,
And Pindar, bugle-voice of listed Thebes,
Simonides — one name of double fame —
Alcasus, Sappho, and the sire of all,
Blind Homer, with a sea-like roll of sound
Thundering forth his grand hexameter.
And then my patron's children, bold-eyed boys,
Tasting the sweet cup of Hellenic song
Often ere this by sips, became athirst
For larger draughts : and I am pledged to-day,
This summer evening on the pleasant sward,
At such length as the allotted hour allows,
To read from one of our old Dramatists,
As best I may, in this rude tongue of Rome.
Sit down, Sirs, on the honey-scented grass.
And listen to the tale of Hecuba,
Most tragic of all tragedies. And first
Consider well the pathos of the play :
Troy-town hath fallen by fire, Troy's king is dead :
And in some harbour of the Chersonese
Th' Achaean fleet lies waiting for fair wind
To waft them home to Hellas. In the tents
Many a captive woman strains her eyes
To the dim shore, where, from their burning homes,
Rises to heaven the rolling smoke of Troy :
And Queen of these is Hecuba, bereaved
Of many a dear one and all queenliness.
But only half heart-broken. Still she clings
To life and two fair children, one a boy,
44 A READING OF THE HECUBA
Her youngest, Polydorus, fled to Thrace,
One here, a budding girl, Polyxena.
This verse tells how she lost the twain of them,
And how avenged the murder of her son.
And hark ! with what a deep melodious roll,
Solemn sonorous vowel-sound, begins
The prelude to this mournful history :
"Hkw, veKpSiv Kev9fJi.(i)va koX (tkotov irvX.a<i
XiTTwv, Lv "Aiorys ^(upts w/ctcrTai ^ewv,
Meet utterance for a phantom-voice to make.
II.
And so the tale is told. And when was told
So sad a tale with such soft melody ?
The rich and wailing music of the chords
Bespeaks, Sirs, think ye not, a master's hand.
Whose sweet low minor note shall fill the world
And echo through the ages ? Deathless love
In all hearts shall enshrine the glorious girl
Who shrank from shame but smiled in Death's stern
eyes.
Sorrowing only for a mother's woe.
And she the mother ! Often in my dreams
I see her rise, a vision terrible.
The woman slowly lost to womanhood,
The tigress-mother maddening for her whelps,
The poor weak slave transformed appallingly
To grandeur by the passion of revenge.
And then slinks by that other figure, king
Only in name, eternal type of men —
Hypocrites even to their own heart's heart —
Who love to take the tide-flow, and secure
Ride on its crest to sleek successfulness,
A READING OF THE HECUBA 45
But stem the current — not to win high heaven !
Who only fear one God— the popular voice,
Who only know one law — propriety,
And deem prosperity and virtue one :
Mean herd, and richest-pastured for all time.
Or else, still dreaming, I behold a face,
Of clear-cut, cold, and cruel lineaments.
Lit treacherously by a subtle smile,
And know Odysseus, forger of false keys
To unlock the coffers of all other minds
To his own profit : glibly balancing
The yeas and nays of every argument
With one set purpose : fluent to produce
Disinterested proof that wrong is right.
And patriotic pleas for selfishness :
Whom only traitors trust.
Or else once more,
I hear a hollow phantom-voice, or see
Once more the bright youth and the sacred maid
Stand at the altar, picturing for men
Relentless force and dauntless innocence.
And then faint strains of choral music float
Silvery-soft across the dreadful sound
Of the knife falling, and I wake to life :
Yet wake not, neither shall the world awake.
So as to break loose from the magic spell
Woven by thee, divine Euripides !
The centuries pass, the kingdoms wax and wane,
Hellas to-day, to-morrow, Sirs, maybe,
E'en this proud city, mistress of mankind ;
But still the master's words shall live in power.
To sway our conquerors' conquerors, and to charm
Many a wild race now without a name.
46
XVI.
A STROLL IN SPRING.
Cups of yellow,
Bells of blue,
Hyacinth and cowslip hue : —
Wiser wits may sort in classes
— Each wild beauty by its fellow —
All the small stars peeping through
The inextricable mazes
Of the labyrinthine grasses
And innumerable daisies :
I'm content that all I know is
All the grassy way I go is
Gemmed with yellow,
Bright with blue.
Swift and Swallow,
Flying breeze.
Twinkling twigs on all the trees,
That's a text which needs no teacher,
That's a theme which all may follow :
Science, let me dream at ease
With what honey-sweet advances
Sun and shower each leafy creature
Woo to leave its winter trances :
I'm content, for all your scorning.
Just to watch, this April morning,
Swift and Swallow,
Flying breeze.
I
47
XVII.
ODIOSO CONCITA VENTO AEQUORA.
No charm thou hast for me, O Sea, in storms :
Fell children are they of the self-same Fate
Which unappeased and uncompassionate
Works all the woe that all the world deforms,
And blights each generous impulse ere it warms
Man's soul, thereby left doubly desperate,
As owing very existence to the hate
And deathful conflict of life's teeming swarms.
But when thy waves are lulled to halcyon calm,
And all the warring winds have fallen asleep,
And on thy soft breast sea-birds rise and fall.
Thy whispers soothe me like some solemn psalm
Announcing easeful rest to them that weep,
To blind eyes light, eternal life to all.
XVIII.
THE TRUE LOVE.
Love, they say, is a beautiful boy.
With wanton wile and a roguish smile,
And the pain of his dart has a pleasant smart,
And sighs are his music, and tears his toy :
But Love, Love, Love,
Thou radiantest, rarest
Of spirits, and fairest.
They but debase thee,
Defame and deface thee.
Blending earth's air with thine ether above ;
Hast thou but touched with thy fire thine adorer.
Faith beckons surer.
Passion is purer,
48
Truth may have quailed, but thy breath will restore
her,
They that renounce gather strength for the trial,
Self is self-slain in the soul's self-denial,
Sacreder, dearer
Light, though austerer,
Shines through the myths of the old from the new
Love,
Known for the true Love,
Love that alone has the strength to subdue love.
XIX.
A FEUD OF THE DESERT.
Out, and into the dark,
Horse, with thy load.
Out, and into the dark.
On thy dark road :
Horse of my heart, thou speedest fast and far.
With naught to guide thy rider but the dim North
Star.
Grim and short were our words,
Fierce was the fight.
Sharp was the clash of swords,
Swift was our flight ;
Hundreds we were when yesternight began.
And now I ride the freeman sole of all my clan.
Wolves ! they would spare not one.
Dealers of death,
Slayers of wife and son !
I held my breath,
49
Watching them slay, and slay, and Ali stood
With red and starting eyes, and fetlocks drenched with
blood.
Curse on the cruel Khan,
Curse on his brood !
Plague and death be the ban
Blasting their blood !
Horse of my heart, lost pride of Candahar,
Away, to seek the armies of the Great White Czar !
XX.
XPYSAYPHS KP0K02.
When Midsummer dozes, deep-drugged by its roses,
I have not a song I can sing to the rose,
No note I remember in sombre November
To mate with the bleak Autumn wind as it blows,
And singing for pleasure I echo no measure
Attuned to the dolour of winter-white snows.
Let others chant praises of Lilies and Daisies,
Or paint the proud Aster's pink, purple, and blue.
Or vaunt in their fancies bevelveted Pansies,
Or rave of the Daffodil drenched with the dew :
Far rarer the regions that own my allegiance,
Far brighter their blossom of splendider hue.
Hush, poets, no treason ! one flower of one season
To challenge your homage I crown as your king :
Gay gold of the Crocus, whose cresset has woke us
The bud and the bird to out-thrill and out-sing.
My champion I name thee, my chosen I claim thee.
Thou soul of the sunshine, and spirit of spring !
4
so
XXI.
WORDSWORTH'S SISTER.^O
I SEE them at the waterside,
The sister and the brother,
Two mortal spirits glorified
By love for one another.
By love, and by one sense that links
The every thought which either thinks.
Responsive to the self-same chords,
Their tongues are tuned to chiming words ;
They watch with sympathetic eye
Lake, tarn, and mountain, earth and sky,
And lost in kindred rapture hall
All loveliness of hill and dale,
Of sight and sound — the spring's first trill,
The daisy and the daffodil.
' We walked along the waterside
And saw a few bright daffodils :
And far and farther on the shore.
Beside the woods, below the hills,
They grew in number more and more,
Long belts of shining daffodils :
They made the mossy stones their pillow
And laid their golden heads upon them,
And not a sunflake on the billow
Could sparkle so that it outshone them :
They tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed
(While ever the merry sunbeams streamed
Across their mystic dancing)
As if they verily danced with a wind
Blown from a land where no man sinned,
They looked so gay and glancing.'
51
Ah, dear dead heart, thy fancies thrill
Through all thy brother's harpstrings still,
As fresh as any daffodil.
XXII.
AN OLD ENIGMA.
Quenched is the light of his face,
Dulled is the fire of his eye.
Naught can relume or replace
Life in the veins that are dry,
Love in the lips you embrace.
Never again shall he see
Summer or rapture of Spring,
Never again shall he be
Tranced as the nightingales sing —
Colder than Winter is he.
Spirit which nothing could tame,
Why art thou darkened and dumb ?
Hero or martyr, thy name
Should through the ages have come.
Lighting the world like a flame.
Longing an answer to find,
Vainly our broken hearts bleed,
Hard is the web to unwind,
Dark is the riddle to read,
Blindly we grope with the blind.
XXIII.
A VIGNETTE OF VENICE.
No wind was on the still lagoon.
The tide was half 'twixt ebb and flow
And sailing slow a silver moon
Shone down upon San Spirito :
52
And silent as that silver sphere
They drifted in their gondola,
And, drowsing, watched the gondoHer,
And, dreaming, heard his quick ' Hola ! '
' Hola, hola ! ' — as thunders break,
The Avenger's shouts their dreams dispel
A shriek, a fireflash o'er the lake.
And he tastes death, and she knows hell.
XXIV.
AN OLD-FASHIONED SONG.
Forehead fair as falling snow,
Hands as foaming milk for whiteness,
Lips rose-red, and eyes aglow
With an April morning's brightness.
Voice so blithesome that you know
No lark's note to match its lightness, —
Song of mine could ne'er express
Half Lucinda's loveliness.
If she sighs the hours are sad.
If she smiles the skies shine bluer.
Heaven and Earth and Sea are glad
Making hushed obeisance to her.
Whispering winds, as though they had
All love's amorous accents, woo her, —
Ah, might I with them caress
Bright Lucinda's loveliness !
All her ways are ways of peace.
Naught she knows of cark or cumber,
Charms for pining hearts' release
Hath she as the stars in number :
53
Sorrows at her footstep cease,
Feverish eyes are lulled to slumber,-
Angels hail and mortals bless
Loved Lucinda's loveliness.
XXV.
EXTINCTUM CINEREM SI SULPHURE TANGAS VIVET.
They loved to madness, then there came
The madness of remorse :
' Courage,' he cried, ' from depths of shame.
May spring divinest force.'
And her soul throbbed to his, as when
Her lips thrilled to his lips,
And innocence smiled out again
As moonlight from eclipse.
Such strength through all his accents ran
She felt she could not faint.
And him she burned for once, as man,
She worshipped now as saint.
Then, at a touch, his passion broke
As madly as before,
And scorning every word he spoke
She loved him all the more.
XXVI.
APRIL 1893.
Sit down awhile, Friend, on this garden-seat
Within the tiny shrubbery which I planned
Ten years ago, whose crescent horns expand
To catch the springing sun's first beam of heat.
54
April to-day ! No, no, 'tis midsummer.
The summer's blue is in the haze afar ;
The green of summer tips the Deodar
And gems the blackness of the stark Scotch Fir.
This Almond with no flush of winter shines,
This coaxing Larch one frown of frost would chill.
No sun with half-learned magic could distil
Such breath of resin from those youngling Pines.
Not Roses ? Why, what lights yon diamond bed
But Prima Rosa's fair face virginal ?
Not hues enough ? When Scilla paints, withal,
With blue of bluest heaven the earth you tread.
Nay, cavil not : the summer is the Sun,
As now he lords it in the flaming west :
April or August, Life vouchsafes its best
To crown too few days, and to-day is one.
XXVI L
ZWEI HERZEN UND EIN SCHLAG.
They say that to impassioned hearts
When, ev'n as life seems loveliest,
Death comes betimes and swiftly parts
Each from the other, it is best :
' For years awaken, and the twain,
Whose prosperous wooing made one flesh,
Will one day looselier feel the strain
That held them in love's silken mesh :
' " He loves, but how he loved me then,"
And his sighs echo her lament,
And ne'er shall either know again
First ecstasy's transfigurement'
55
They say, and rave : or never knew
The love of loves, full-orbed and whole.
Which strikes from passion notes more true
Of music mingling soul with soul.
The healing touch on fevered brow —
The clasping of a gentle hand —
The eye to eye responsive, now
Not needing words to understand, —
The joint night-watches by the bed,
Where pants the breath which both have
given —
Their firstborn won back from the dead.
And earth for each transformed to heaven, —
The anchored faith, the welded trust —
The peace which nothing selfish mars —
For such love all a lifetime must
Be short, for it outlasts the stars.
XXVIII.
lONA.
The tombs of Maclean and Macleod,
Of Macleod and Maclean,
They lie in the mist and the rain
And the gloom of the grey sea-shroud.
Hard by the torn sea- shore.
Where the summer silence awakes
To the babble the fool-mob makes,
And the insolent engine's roar ;
But what care Macleod and Maclean
For the rain and the cloud,
The cloud and the rain ?
56
lona has gathered their dust to her breast,
They were weary, they sleep, were wayworn, and
rest.
The tombs of the forty Kings —
Kings of the Kyles,
Lords of the Isles,
By sea-waves white as a sea-gull's wings
Which broke in fury and raved, or ceased
At the outstretched hand of the praying priest,
While the sea-snakes settled in noiseless rings
To the depths of the green sea-lane, —
As a show they are to an idle crowd
With the tombs of Macleod and Maclean ;
But what care Maclean and Macleod ?
lona has gathered their dust to her breast,
They were weary, they sleep, were wayworn, and
rest.
XXIX.
A SOUTH SEA ISLAND.
Reefs of coral, seaward roar.
Surf that whitens leagues of shore,
Inner airs of softer tune
Sung low to the still lagoon.
Basking lizards, apes at play,
Dark girls lithe and blithe as they
In the cool banana-groves
Where the amorous seaman roves,
Boughs festooned with trailing green.
Burnished birds aflame between
Flowers of yet more lustrous hue —
That's the Island of Lanfantu.
57
Tuft of plumy cocoa-palm,
Clustered spice-buds breathing balm,
Food you gather at your ease,
Just when hungry, from the trees,
Quivering flats of fervid sand.
Torrent-streams liana-spanned.
Morns of freshness, fireflies bright
To illuminate the night.
Night which would not know their loss,
Sparkles so the Southern Cross,
Lazy grace of poised canoe —
That's the Island of Lanfantu.
XXX.
FLEBILE LUDIBRIUM.
A LOWERING look, a taunting word-
To him they meant no more
Than stones by which still waters stirred
Anon sleep as before.
For her the frown has quenched a sun,
The glance was death's own dart.
The whisper stunned as tempests stun,
The mockery broke a heart.
XXXI.
STAGNATION.
To lose all count of time, to lag
Inglorious through deserted days,
To feel the slow months crawl and drag,
Nor hear one word of blame or praise.
To wake at dawning loth that sleep
So soon should leave the listless eyes,
58
To watch the twilight shadows creep
Unwelcome o'er the fading skies.
To long for love, nor ever know
Love's whispered troth or woman's kiss,
To dream of dreams of long-ago,
To wake to life whose all is this.
XXXII.
time's revenge.
Two things have topped your pyramid —
(So teaches Monsieur D'Alembert)
One, trailing slime, has upwards slid,
And one swooped down from loftier air ;
And each, awhile on equal height.
Astounds the multitude, but Time,
Still wondering at the Eagle's flight.
Annuls the reptile and the slime.
XXXIII.
TEARS.
Tears, — childhood's tears, of passage fleet
As summer shower in summer heat,
The tricksy lure to coax awhile
A mother's smile.
Tears, — manhood's tears, ' Would God,' he
weeps,
' I slept the sleep my darling sleeps,'
Nor dreams another's head will rest,
Soon, on his breast.
59
Tears, — tears unshed that burn the brain,
Still rising, still forced back again,
Tears bitt'rest, woefulest of all,
Which never fall !
XXXIV.
A CHRISTMAS SONG.
Gone are all the gauzy tribes of Summer
— Gorgeous ' Emperors ' and ' Painted Ladies '-
Not a flower to lure each busy hummer
Lingers where the sunshine or the shade is :
From the muffled down is gone
All its insect unison.
Summer, we disdain thy fickle graces.
Winter's rugged face we reckon dearer, —
Keen from weathered wind and frost that braces,
Honester and truer though austerer :
June's for roving feet to roam,
Christmas for the rest of home.
XXXV.
'age, I DO ABHOR THEE.'
What's left of man
When youth is gone,
And chill hearts scan
Old age ahead,
And lips are wan
That once were red.
And eyes seem lead
That stars outshone ?
What's left of man
When youth is gone
6o
From life's brief span,
And hope has fled,
And love lies on
A churchyard-bed.
And friends are dead
We leaned upon ?
When all is said
The wisest can.
When youth is gone
Nought's left of man.
XXXVI.
'age, I DO DEFY THEE.'
Old, old we grow.
But Where's the snow
That will not melt
When sunshine's felt ?
' Life's gray,' you say :
Not so, not so,
But glad to-day
As years ago.
'As day declines.
In lengthening lines
The shadow's flung.
The song's unsung.
The lute is mute.'
Not so, not so,
The years bear fruit
As years ago.
6i
XXXVII.
AN agnostic's apology.
Is there a God? the Christian answers 'Yes,
I trust, I feel, I know, and do not guess.'
And to that ' know ' the Atheist echoes ' No,
Thou only reapest what thyself dost sow.'
Is Science arbiter? — One reads ' Divine'
In earth and sea and every starry sign,
And one in every cosmical event
Sequence on sequence of development.
O helpless Science ! Who, of all your laws
Is lawgiver, and Cause of your first cause?
Empty your inkstands proving that the cell
Is life's first storehouse and last citadel.
But own you end by groping in one mist
As clear for Christian as for Atheist.
In vain to-day as in the race's prime
You strive to gauge eternity and time.
And all your lore will yield no spark of light
To meet the finite or the infinite.
You scorn the lowly souls which shun despair
By lives of faith, and feel and see through prayer,
Yet ignorant as they you profit less.
Drinking salt springs while they taste happiness.
The wizard's mirror, spells, and horoscope
You deem no idler than the Christian's hope :
' Hope of a heaven, all psalms, but never dull,
Hope of a God severe but pitiful,
Hope that our sires in childish error fell
For all poor sinners prophesying hell,
Hope that in some predestined spot of space
Those death has severed once more shall embrace.'
62 AN AGNOSTIC'S APOLOGY
Well, hope is something, be it but a chance ;
Still let us hail her shining countenance,
And still hope on. What though it prove a dream
As rainbow-cup or vision of the stream ?
Yet dreams are half life's happiness, and where
The gain of desperate clinging to despair ?
Though God be but a guess, yet he who guessed
That symbol made a universe more blessed,
And in the earth's primeval quag and bog
Praised be the man who found a decalogue.
For what though past life's limits all be dark
Save for the faint gleam of one flickering spark ?
Enough for us the world within our ken ;
Face we the present, fearlessly, like men.
Still, though we know not what we name the soul,
Owning it guides us to our noblest goal.
So led, we shall not fret that life is brief,
Nor seek in sensual lawlessness relief :
What ! eat and drink, and wait death's summons ? No,
Let four-foot beasts expend life's largesse so :
'Tis not the riotous throb of passion's sense
That thrills through man his raptures most intense ;
Brighter than all the lightning-fire of lust
Is love in kindred hearts and mutual trust,
— Hearts that in shade and sunshine knit as one
Breathe the same breath and pulse in unison, —
Once known, we know no more ecstatic bliss.
By mortal sense conceivable, than this,
And with the Christian we may throne above
All other faiths this one — that ' God ' is love.
Cleave we to such love, should such love be ours,
With praise and rapture all life's radiant hours,
And should that best boon fail, still, through life's stress.
63
Strain on alone to some stern happiness
With love, no less, for lodestar — love that long
Must suffer, till by suffering it is strong.
He who the future, selfless, scorns to scan.
In manhood's lists content to play the man,
His long day over, and his labour done,
Shall catch some splendour from the setting sun :
Cheerless the road at first, but wait awhile,
At eventide his patient lips shall smile,
His weary ears shall sounds of blessing greet
Sweeter than song of singing-bird is sweet.
And all the wild shall blossom as the rose
Ere night comes, and unfaltering he goes
Holding out hands to death.
Be that lot mine.
To know save in the human no divine,
To hope, but not to pilot life by hope,
And, all man's future counting past man's scope.
As this world's liege to do to-day's work well,
Unlured by heaven, undriven by dread of hell.
XXXVIII.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
But yesterday, it seems, we had
Youth, spring, and morning — You and I ;
The birds in every bush were glad.
The clouds were high.
And higher soared our hearts than they
In that rose-radiant yesterday.
But yesterday to-day it seems
When Rover romped upon the lawn,
64 TEMPORA MUTANTUR
As we lay dreaming boyhood's dreams
For hours, withdrawn
Beneath the leafage of the nook
Which slopes down to the babbling brook.
How full of fire and hope we were,
How eager for the strife of men,
How confident of conquest, where,
With sword or pen.
In some heroic cause we meant
To lord it in life's tournament.
When twice and thrice we sadly stood
Beside some lost young playmate's grave.
The preacher's moralising mood
No warning gave :
So sure we felt, we knew not why,
Of strength in us too strong to die.
Scant pity then we had for those
Whose fervour Time's bleak touch had chilled ;
We watched them as their life-blood froze,
Selfish, self-willed.
And lo, the doom on us has come.
Our veins are cold, our hearts are numb.
We envied this man for his wealth ;
Behold, his land, his gold, is ours :
For baits of pride we bartered health
And manhood's powers,
Only as wearied worn-out men,
To long that we were boys again.
We saw, a year since, you and I,
Our childhood's memory-haunted scene ;
TEMPORA MUTANTUR 65
The tiny brook still sparkled by
The village green ;
The rooks rose cawing, as of yore,
Above the elm and sycamore.
The vines our father loved to prune
Still climbed along the high red wall,
And on that August afternoon
A funeral
Drew near where he was wont to wait
The mourners at the churchyard-gate.
As idlers once, so, reverent, then.
We stood beside the dark pit's brim.
And heard the sorrowful Amen,
The wailing hymn.
From loving lips which scarce could trust
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Awhile we gazed and strove to trace
Some voice or look that we had known,
In vain, — in all the throng no face
Familiar grown
Restored to us with shadowed truth
A vision of the hours of youth.
We turned and saw the sunbeams streak
A branching blackness that we knew ;
For many a game of hide-and-seek
In that vast yew
Had mocked with ringing laughter's sound
The silence of the sacred ground.
We wist not then the hour was nigh
When neath yon block of square-hewn stone
5
66
The little group we loved should lie,
And we, alone.
With faltering feet should one day come
To trace the letters of their tomb.
But, courage ! though the night grow black
And blacker, we will not repine :
Who knows beyond life's vanished wrack
What lights may shine ?
And Dawn on other shores may bring
Immortal youth, perpetual spring.
XXXIX.
A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.
Dead ? Yes, I see him stark there on the bed,
Thank God, stone-dead.
Nor can I, as you preach to me I ought,
Think one kind thought.
Or say one soft word to his memory,
Howe'er I try.
' De Mortuis^ — it is a fool who writes
For hypocrites ;
Better without false tear or feigned ruth
The whole, black truth.
God ! how I always hated him, and how
I hate him now !
By him, I tell you, even from the first.
My life was cursed :
He made me traitress to divinest trust,
And his hands thrust
Away whatever nobleness I had
And made it bad ;
A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 67
Whatever sweetness took my fancy thrall,
He turned to gall ;
Whatever woke in me of steadfast will
He stifled still ;
Whatever spark was struck of generous flame
He quenched in shame :
Had he but made my body loth to live
I could forgive,
But not the mocking thief who stained and stole
My very soul.
He grieved not for the past, he grudged it gone
With sins not done.
And most had scorned such grace as still belonged
To those he wronged.
In core and grain the man was foul and mean,
Abject, obscene :
Not criminal, for cowards shrink betimes
From brave men's crimes,
But leprous-hearted, with a cozening smile
You hailed awhile.
Then knew meant treason, did you chance to hear
The sequent sneer.
Or mark how all things honest fain would fly
His serpent's eye.
His words, which were a subtle spur to sense.
Soiled innocence ;
He was for countless lives of vilest course
The poisoned source,
Misused them and abused them for his ends,
But had no friends.
And died, — the harvest reaped that he had sown —
Unloved, alone.
' A slighted Wanton's railing,' think you ? No,
It is not so ;
68
Wanton, perchance, yet Woman, who above
All else prized love,
And found none in him, nor one faint impress
Of selflessness.
Praise God, the base clay's tenantless at last
And passed the Past.
XL.
THE PLOUGHBOY'S SONG.
When winter winds have ceased to blow,
And larks are on the wing.
Behind our straining team I sow
The seed with measured swing :
I'm far afield as morning breaks
And birds awake to woo,
I spy the lurking meadow-crakes,
I hear the first cuckoo.
Smock-frock, billy-cock.
Harvest field and hay,
A whistle clear for all the year.
And heart as fresh as May.
When round the corner of the barn
Up sails the jolly sun.
Sir Rooster struts about to warn
'Tis time that work's begun ;
And through the swishing grass I go
Astride with swaying scythe,
And mowers, singing as they mow.
Take up my ditty blithe :
Smock-frock, billy-cock,
Harvest-field and hay,
A whistle clear for all the year.
And heart as fresh as May.
69
When fields are red with rustling wheat,
And sickles sweep and shine,
From sheaf to sheaf with tireless feet
I lead the reapers' line ;
And when the children challenge me.
And stand in wonder mute,
Down from the topmost orchard-tree
I toss the golden fruit.
Smock-frock, billy-cock.
Harvest-field and hay,
A whistle clear for all the year.
And heart as fresh as May.
When in the hollow blue of night
Cold shines the maiden moon,
And white frost makes December bright
As morrice-queens in June,
I haste across the sparkling wold
To save the flock from harm.
While Gyp keeps watch on byre and fold.
And safely sleeps the farm.
Smock-frock, billy-cock,
Harvest-field and hay,
A whistle clear for all the year.
And heart as fresh as May.
XLl.
THE NIHILISTS' SUICIDE."
Not in the natural hour of death.
Nor by man's righteous doom.
With none to soothe our parting breath,
Or raise the reverent tomb ;
70 THE NIHILISTS' SUICIDE
Not slain by sword or pestilence,
Not smitten blind or dumb,
Not seared of soul or cloyed in sense.
We come, O God, we come.
Love still leaps in us at the name
Of sweethearts, sisters, wives ;
To save them one short hour of shame
We ev'n had brooked our lives ;
But who would live to know their lot,
— Some outraged, tortured some, —
And know he could avenge them not ?
Therefore, O God, we come.
We come to Thy tribunal. Lord,
Thy justice to arraign.
Because so long Thy lingering sword
Within its sheath has lain,
Because Thine eyes have ceased to see,
Because Thy hands are numb,
Because Thou hearkenest not, to Thee
We come, O God, we come.
Each torment of victorious wrong
'Neath which our loved ones pine,
— The dungeon-den, the jailer's thong,
The chain, the stifling mine, —
Each agony of all our ill
And all its untold sum
Thou knowest, and Thou sufferest still :
Therefore, O God, we come.
Thy thunders o'er the Tyrant broke
Aforetime by the Nile,
Thy ten plagues snapped the Pharaoh's yoke.
And freemen blessed Thy smile ;
71
But now as slaves, forlorn, alone,
From life's long martyrdom
Through death's gate, desperate, to Thy throne
We come, O God, we come.
XLII.
DILEXIT.12
Within a minster-graveyard lies
An ancient, lichened stone,
No date thereon, no name,— your eyes
Behold this word alone,
Dilexit. And, O marble urns
Which crowd the minster-wall,
Methinks this one brief word outyearns
The grief graved on you all.
Christ wept, and ' How he loved him,' said
His followers, and here
Divine love seems to bless the dead.
And shed a sacred tear.
Whose word is it, and writ of whom?
What sorrows expiate
What wrongs ? Who moulders in the tomb.
And doomed by what stern fate ?
Some child soon claimed of heaven again,
Whose sinless-seeming ways
A mother's heart would not profane
With common words of praise ?
Or woman, all too fair of face,
Who stained a stainless name.
Still loved for love's last lingering grace
That shone through clouds of shame ?
72
Or think you some poor prodigal,
From all but one door driven,
Thus reared a mute memorial,
Remorseful, though forgiven ?
In vain our errant fancies guess
Why love half hid its woe ;
Two hearts knew their own bitterness,
As none but they shall know.
XLIII.
THE OLD SCHOOL GATE.
What are these voices clear
Ringing aloud in my ear,
As I lie in the tropical heat
Of an Indian midsummer day.
Listlessly dreaming away,
With a weary, feverish brain,
The hours that with fiery feet
Burn their pitiless way
Over the life of the plain ?
Hark ! 1 hear them again.
And lo, in a moment
The landscape is changed,
And I am no longer
Alone and estranged ;
Cooled is the torturing
Glare of the sun ;
Green is the Compound
So dusty and dun :
Fair the dark faces,
The fawning eyes free,
The arid air radiant
THE OLD SCHOOL GATE 73
With blossom and tree :
Green fields out-glisten
The cactuses, where
The manslaying tiger
Has chosen his lair ;
Gambolling meadow-rills,
Bright as young brides,
Sweeten the waters
The Tank's hollow hides :
And India is England,
And lassitude joy.
And once more in fancy
The man is a boy.
And I stand at the gate
Of the homely red wall.
And gaze down the court
At the School-room and Hall,
At the sober grey Chapel,
The houses, the limes.
And straightway fall dreaming
Of happy old times :
Of soft summer mornings
When wakeful I lay,
And heard from the Terrace
Birds heralding day.
As linnets and thrushes
Sang heaven was all blue,
And the pigeons crooned back to
Each mellow cuckoo :
Of hurrying footsteps
Beneath the tall trees :
Of leaps in the lakelet
74 THE OLD SCHOOL GATE
Scarce fanned by the breeze :
Of holiday roamings
For verdurous miles :
Of shy deer quick-glancing
Through dim forest-aisles :
Of the white-dotted fields
In the long afternoon,
Of the glow and the rapture
Of youth and of June :
Of Winter's brave pastime,
When bold spirits feel
The fire of the warrior,
The patriot's zeal :
Of the caps and the vestures
Of infinite hue,
That gleam in the strife
Of the Red and the Blue :
Of the chat in the fire-light
Recalling the fray,
Of the innocent banquet
That ended the day :
Of the friendships we formed,
Of the dreams that we dreamed.
Of the visions enchanted
That were what they seemed.
And while I stand musing
Alone at the gate.
The clock's finger points to
The moment of fate.
And School-rooms are emptied,
And out, with a roar
Of the rushing of waters,
The merry boys pour.
75
And as they troop onward
Through sunshine or rain,
Their clear voices echo
Around me again.
They cease, and I wake to the pain
Of the fever that burns in my brain,
But I bless as a blissful chance
The dream that has come of my youth,
And the scene of a boy's romance :
And I swear that while life's strands hold,
And for ever while truth is truth,
And whatever fortune may come,
I will cherish the dear old name,
And my ears shall be dull and cold.
Ere they welcome a flaw on her fame ;
I will cherish the dear old name,
And whatever of harm may be told.
My lips shall be cold and dumb.
Ere they utter a word to her shame.
XLIV.
AN AUTUMN SCENE.
The Summer's sickly.
The flowers are moping ;
Fellow by fellow.
Scarlet and yellow,
Wholly past hoping,
The leaves fall thickly.
Silently ruing
Their life's undoing.
Morning by morning
76 AN AUTUMN SCENE
The mists brood lower,
The pale sun scorning :
The grass's colour
That heeds no mower
Grows dull and duller.
O'er eaves and ledges
Are thick tears creeping,
The web-strung hedges
Are mutely weeping :
The lanes are lonely,
There's no step moving
Of lovers I'oving,
There's no sound stirring
But drowsy whirring
Of engines only
With swart breath smoking,
And ceaseless droning
From rickyards coming,
Drear as the sighing
Breath of the dying :
The rooks sail croaking
At eve, from roaming,
But no cock's crowing,
But no song gushes
From morning thrushes :
Let fall those berries,
Thou foolish bramble,
Why show false flushes
Like June's bright cherries ?
Thou hast no meetness ;
To filch such sweetness
What child would scramble ?
Thy flaunting treason
n
Misseems the season.
The year's grown older,
Its breath is colder,
And sad and sober
Is sere October.
XLV.
SLEEP ON NOW.
Let her sleep !
It is best.
It is rest
that she seeks,
from the pain
of long weeks.
Would you wake
her again
to the ache
and the pain ?
She was tired,
and desired
only sleep,
sound and deep,
sweet and still.
See how fresh
the fair flesh !
Not a line,
not a sign
of life's ill !
What imparts
the old grace
as of yore
to her face ?
It is sleep.
78
Do not weep
any more,
— though your hearts
should be wrung —
or complain
for her lot,
that again
she is young,
she is fair,
without stain,
without spot.
Leave a flower
as your dower
in her hair,
— one white flower —
and one blue
you may set
in her hand
if you will.
Its command
sooner you
will forget
to fulfil.
XLVI.
A DEATH-BED.
' Stay with us.'
He cannot stay :
Seek no delay,
A month, a day,
Or one short hour
Till morning break :
Nay,
79
He will not wake
To watch the sun,
His hours are done,
He cannot stay,
He must away,
His feet grow numb,
His fingers stray.
His breath is faint,
His eyelids close
Like folding flower
When night has come ;
No more he knows
That ye stand by :
Oh, hush your plaint,
And kneel and pray
The end be nigh :
He cannot stay.
He must away,
He yields perforce, he has no power,
Death's dark hand beckons and he must obey.
XLVII.
A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER.
The Vane has veered !
Hurrah for the Vane !
The Vane has veered, and off has sheered
—Vanished with the veering Vane —
To some limbo haze and rain :
Rain and haze.
Haze and rain.
How we cursed the sullen maze
Of those dolorous three days !
8o A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
Hail and snow,
And sleet ensuing,
Rain and fog
Above, below
Mud and bog
Your footsteps gluing,
Storm-blasts of the fiend's own brewing
Rending back the ghastly curtain
From the grey sea buried deep
In a cataleptic sleep,
Till you caught a gleam uncertain.
Just a moment, from the cloud.
Like some glimmer, from a shroud.
Of a dead man's half-shut eye
Staring at you stealthily.
Where the birds were, who may know ?
They were silent as the snow.
Save that, when the clock's slow flight
Emphasised the incumbent night,
Sounded some sepulchral croak
Which the dismal stillness broke,
And you guessed what ebon thing
Through the upper mirk took wing.
Ah, but now the Vane has veered,
East and West the air is cleared.
And, as some great Emperor,
In the glory he has won
Over rebel legions slain,
Comes exulting from the war.
So, resplendent, the strong sun,
Victor, with the veering Vane,
Comes to hold his own again.
i
A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER 8i
All the earth's fresh incense springs,
All the waves are white with wings,
Fast the tattered cloudlets fly.
Blue and bluer grows the sky ;
To the hill-tops frisk the kine
Snuffing up the stinging brine ;
On the shingle fishers set
Tawny lengths of steaming net ;
Rioting out from every door,
Mobs of little children pour,
And their elders hasten after
Shouts of silvery-ringing laughter ;
For out in the offing there's flopping and flapping
— Out where the spray sparkles shinier, brinier, —
Acrobat tumbling, and splashing, and slapping
As of a hundred of sea-lashing flails.
And a wise little mite you hear say to a tinier,
' Whales ! no, not whales,
'Tis the topsy-turvying porpoises' tails.'
That is the way when the Vane has veered,
And the black heaven breaks.
And the wind has shifted,
And the fog has lifted,
And the heart of man and of beast is cheered,
And the world awakes
To life again,
With the veering Vane.
82
XLVIII.
AMPHIBIOUS.
I AM a farmer-fisher lad,
The Cornish coast's my home,
One harvest from the heather's had,
And one is from the foam ;
I'll drive a furrow straight and true
With any lad ashore,
I'll steer a boat the breakers through
From Austell Bay to Tor.
' Come buy ' 's my cry,
' Come buy
Honey from the hive-o.
Herrings all alive-o —
Come buy, come buy.'
I would not live on Midland leas
For twenty pounds a week,
I'm fain to feel the briny breeze
A-rippling on my cheek ;
I've hands can handle oar or plough,
Scythe, sickle, sail, or seine,
From swaying mast or swinging bough
I laugh at storm and rain.
' Come buy' 's my cry,
' Come buy
Honey from the hive-o.
Herrings all alive-o —
Come buy, come buy.'
When March has edged his sharpest air.
My coulter cuts the ground.
With gulls to track the shining share
A-sailing round and round ;
I
83
As sunrise peeps I haul the net,
I ted the hay at noon,
And I've a lass to meet and pet
Each night of pleasant June.
' Come buy ' 's my cry,
' Come buy
Honey from the hive-o,
Herrings all alive-o —
Come buy, come buy.'
When lowering frowns the sullen North,
And seas are livid lead,
From dusk to dawn I'm faring forth
To feed the folks abed.
And hand in purse each housewife dips
To buy my shining spoil,
While Gaffer slowly licks his lips
And snuffs the herrings' broil.
' Come buy ' 's my cry,
' Come buy
Honey from the hive-o,
Herrings all alive-o —
Come buy, come buy.'
XLIX.
A WHALING SONG.
The Skipper's given the word, my boys,
The word, my boys, the word, my boys,
A better word I never heard,
Have you, my boys ? have you, my boys ?
Hurrah ! hurrah I
For homeward bound,
We're homeward bound ;
Whirl the capstan round and round.
84 A WHALING SONG
We've sailed in queerish seas, my boys.
They're not a bit like these, my boys ;
The water 's frozen all to floes
That crack and creak and wheeze, my boys.
D'ye mind 'twas half a gale, my boys.
We'd reefed most all our sail, my boys,
When on our lee we first did see
A blowing, blubbery whale, my boys.
That was a lucky day, my boys.
The fish were all at play, my boys ;
A score or more, the skipper swore.
Were spouting in the bay, my boys.
'Twas hard work to get nigh, my boys.
The ice was drifting by, my boys ;
But sink or float we'd man the boat.
To reach them wet or dry, my boys.
You mind our Specksioneer, my boys.
No smarter far or near, my boys,
No hand more sure or foot secure ;
For why ? he knows no fear, my boys.
He stood with his harpoon, my boys,
He raised it sharp, and soon, my boys,
A lightning lunge, a sousing plunge —
The line it twanged a tune, my boys !
Up on the main-top-mast, my boys.
We heard 'em sing out ' Fast,' my boys,
Then heard no more, as on we tore,
Nigh swamped, as we flew past, my boys.
One stowed, another'd come, my boys.
Oh weren't we cramped and numb, my boys ?
85
So daft the dance we'd scarce the chance
To toss a tot of rum, my boys.
But now we've got the spoil, my boys,
Our casks are full of oil, my boys,
Our wage is won, our turn of fun
We'll take instead of toil, my boys.
Goodbye to pack and floe, my boys,
We'll soon be in the voe, my boys,
Where waves are blue a twelvemonth through
And warm the west winds blow, my boys.
For the Skipper's given the word, my boys,
The word, my boys, the word, my boys,
A better word 1 never heard,
Have you, my boys ? have you, my boys ?
Hurrah 1 hurrah 1
For homeward bound,
We're homeward bound ;
Whirl the capstan round and round.
L.
A DAY BY THE SEA.
Down by the sea and afar on the sands
Hark to the clapping of happy hands I
Those are the little ones brought from the town,
Brought from the town, and its dull streets' frown,
To the shore and the sea for a whole glad day,
To the sands and the sea and a whole day's play :
And lighter and lighter the dim eyes glow.
And faster and faster the small feet go.
And rosier and rosier the pale cheeks grow
From the first faint pink of the shell on the shore.
86 A DAY BY THE SEA
And their shrill cries blend with the sea's hoarse roar
And they chase the waves and the waves chase them
As they stretch for the pebble that seems a gem,
And tiny fingers the sea-pods crack
With luck for Jenny and joy for Jack,
And they trench and delve till a wall is made,
Made without hammer, or saw, or spade,
And a moat all round it, and in the moat
Water to float a tiny boat,
The sail a feather, the boat a cork.
Smallest of shipwrights' handiwork.
And the water is salt as salt can be.
Cunningly carried across from the sea.
Carried in shell and carried in hand,
Carried in leaves they have brought from the land ;
And they dig so deep that with wondering eyes
They see a sea of their own arise,
And around in triumph they clasp and cling
Hand in hand in a laughing ring.
And they dance as never they danced before.
Dance till they're faint and can dance no more,
Till all too early the sun descends.
And the night draws nigh and the long day ends,
Ends in a wonderful fire in the west,
— Splendour undreamt of, glory unguessed —
Fire on the sea-crest, fire on the down,
And the stars shine out, and it's hey for the town —
The town transfigured, the town with a train
Linking it ever to rapture again.
You that are rich, with your bounty be free.
Grudge not the children their glimpse of the sea.
87
LI.
AD POPULUM PHALERAS.
War's pride swells Alexander's heart,
Piled skulls please Tamerlane,
And lives by myriads Bonaparte
Deems cheaply spent to gain
A tinsel crown,
A base renown.
The hemlock-cup for Socrates,
For Joan the torturing flame,
And— Comfort ye, content, with these,
To count as glory, shame.
As guerdon, loss, —
For Christ the cross.
The Idol clay, the scorned adored,—
Time's lesson, but unlearned
By fools who cursing Conquest's sword
Themselves to wield it yearned.
While wisdom lay
A castaway.
Ay, hardly now from dreams distraught
Half-waked the world descries
And hails him, who for truth has wrought
A life's self-sacrifice.
The only King
Worth worshipping.
8S
LII.
ENNUYEE.
' Life worth living? ' do you ask?
Does the midge grudge its task
As it glitters in the sun
Silver-spun ?
Life worth living ? and, forsooth,
Every pulse of your youth
Beating quicker than bird's wing
In the spring !
What a birthright, what a blaze,
What a splendour of days.
Without trouble, without fears,
Without tears !
You the Empress of it all !
Every heart in your thrall !
To be trampled by your feet
Reckoned sweet !
Fashion waiting for your voice —
Friends and lovers at choice —
And so hard to while away
Just a day?
' Life worth living ? ' Well, maybe
Not by you, I agree,
If the best of it you pawn
For a yawn.
89
LIII.
A MATERIALIST'S GLOSS.
Who was it spake in the tongue that was Roman
Words that announce so un- Roman a message,
Absolute, sure, as the sun-dial's gnomon,
Compassing all a world's fate in their presage ?
Grim as a voice from the grave in my ear is
' Ibis, redibis, non morieris.'
Man, like a moth at the flame as thou burnest,
Little thou reckest what lot may befall men.
Thou art but dust, and to dust thou returnest —
' 'Tis but the destiny meted to all men.'
Not for the first of this warning thy fear is,
' IBIS, redibis, non morieris.'
But to return — to return and to die not.
Ay, and live on with the worm that's undying,
That were a doom which a man would defy not ;
Chill were his heart did he hear the voice crying
' Dream of no paradise peopled with Peris,
Ibis, REDIBIS, non morieris.'
Nay, but take courage, who knows where the prophet
Destined his comma to take up its station?
Move it a whit, and the blessedness of it !
Death becomes death, without dread of damnation :
Pledge the words thus in the good wine of Xeres,
' Ibis, redibis non, MORIERIS.'
9°
LIV.
GOOD FRIDAY, 1 889.
Sad the Lenten news, John Bright :
Lost at last your one lost fight !
And to me by your death-bed
Half of fifty years seem dead.
Half of fifty years ago.
Life was lustrous morning-glow,
When to bear the battle's brunt
First you formed our phalanx-front.
What wild terror scared our foes
As your clarion war-cry rose !
As they closed, the felon pack,
How your strong strokes beat them back !
As they skulked from lie to lie
How you smote them hip and thigh !
And through all that strenuous day
Staunch we cheered you in the fray.
Then the change came, you misprized
What your own right hand devised.
Fired the beacon o'er our night.
Then shrank dazzled by its light :
Nay, we know it was not you,
Truth's self, you were always true.
Only, on life's western slope.
You lost what you left us, hope,
Reading, for our dayspring nigh,
Conflagration in the sky.
Thanks, then, for your glorious past
On your glorious grave we cast,
Loyal, as when side by side
Foes now fawning we defied.
Stout old champion, friend of right,
Still we love your name, John Bright !
91
LV.
AN ACADEMY PICTURE.
This queen that I bow down before is
Our midsummer blossom, Dolores.
Her hair is blue-black as the sloe is,
Her feet are as fleet as the roe is.
Her eyes are deep mountain-tarn glories,
A queen to adore is Dolores.
That other — so radiant her mien is —
We hail her our sun-goddess, Inez,
— Gold hair and blue eyes — and her voice is
As blithe as the bird that rejoices.
And gay as a tropic bird's sheen is
Youth's fresh frolic freeness in Inez.
LVI.
RECOGNITA.
' Men are at some time masters of their fates.'
But fate is oftener master of the man,
And Sense weighs Spirit down with leaden weights,
Will all he may, and struggle all he can.
' Macbeth doth murder sleep.' — The weird words roll
A dreadful knell to many a haunted soul
Which owns the indictment true, and like Macbeth
Shall sleep no more this side the sleep of death.
Though shining days my portion be.
Some hand, some hour, must write, ' Sic finis'
92
Mortis timor conturbat me' —
Alack ! how terrible that line is !
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' — To some
As tidings of great joy the sad words come
What future can some martyrdoms redress
Better to cease to be, and nothingness.
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' In vain.
To some ' beyond ' the worst-bruised soul will strain,
Still hoping against hope to see unfold
A new life with oblivion of the old.
LVII.
DIES IRAE.'^
Day of anger, dreadful day !
Earth in flame shall shrivel away,
Seer and Psalmist, boding, say.
'Mid what agony of fear
Shall the Judge of all appear,
Strictly each account to hear !
Hark, the trumpet-blast appalling.
Through the grave's far kingdoms falling.
To the throne all spirits calling !
Death shall quail and Nature quake,
When Earth's generations wake.
Answer to the Judge to make.
Open shall be spread the scroll
In the which is writ the whole
Record sentencing each soul.
DIES IRAE 93
Once the Judge is on his throne,
Every secret shall be known,
Every sinner shall atone.
Ah, what shall I plead, that day,
Unto what protector pray,
When the saints scarce find a stay ?
King of dreadful majesty.
Saviour, with salvation free,
Fount of pity, save thou me !
Pitying Jesu, thy lost sheep.
Sought so far with anguish deep,
Safe, that day, remembering, keep.
Fainting sore thou soughtest me,
With thy cross thou boughtest me,
Vain let not that labour be.
Judge most just in punishing,
Bounteous be in pardoning,
Ere the day of reckoning.
Bitter sighs my guilt proclaim.
Red my brow is with my shame.
Spare me by thy sacred name.
Thou, by whom was Mary shriven,
Thou, by whom the thief forgiven,
Grantest me, too, hope of heaven.
Prayer of mine might save me never.
Yet, good Lord, do thou deliver.
Lest I burn in fire for ever.
'Mid thy sheep my place provide,
From the goats my lot divide.
On thy right hand, by thy side.
94 DIES IRAE
When upon the cursed all
Hell-fire and confusion fall,
Me amid the blessed call.
Bruised to dust, in prayer I bend ;
Lord, my contrite heart attend,
At the last abide my friend.
Dreadful day of tears and cries,
When from ashes man must rise.
Summoned to the great assize.
Spare us, therefore, God adored !
Spare us, pitying Jesu, Lord,
Heavenly rest to all accord.
I
FROM
' DANTON
AND OTHER VERSE'
I.
SONG OK LUCILE DESMOULINS.
(From 'Danton.')
LiSETTE,
My sweet,
Do you forget
How many an eve with flying feet
We stayed not, hurrying, till we met
Beside the trailed espalier-screen
In lengthening hours of later Spring,
When oak-buds all were yellowing,
And chestnut-fans were green ?
Do you remember or forget,
Lisette, Lisette?
Lisette,
My sweet.
Do you forget
The night-dews after days of heat.
The leaves with flickering lights afret,
The airs that blew the leaves between,
The stars that seemed to smile and bless
A heaven of love and loveliness,
And you its radiant queen ?
Do you remember or forget,
Lisette, Lisette ?
7
98
Lisette,
My sweet,
Your eyes are wet,
Your softening looks my whispers meet,
My sighs an answering sigh beget
For shining noons and nights serene,
For hearts of youth and hours of love,
For April grace of grass and grove,
When clouds were all unseen.
Ah, fool, to think you could forget,
Lisette, Lisette I
IL
ANDRjfi'S RIDE.
When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac
With all his raiders at his back,
Mon Dieu, the tumult in the town !
Scarce clanged the great portcullis down
Ere in the sunshine gleamed his spears
And up marched all his musketeers,
And far and fast in haste's array
Sped men to fight and priests to pray ;
In every street a barricade
Of aught that came to hand was made.
From every house a man was told,
Nor quittance given to young or old ;
Should youth be spared, or age be slack.
When Andre rode to Pont-de-lac ?
When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac,
With all his ravening reiver-pack,
The mid lake was a frozen road
Unbending to the cannon's load ;
ANDR]£'S RIDE 99
No warmth the sun had as it shone,
The kine were stalled, the birds were gone ;
Like wild things seemed the shapes of fur
With which was every street astir,
And over all the huddling crowd
The thick breath hung a solid cloud ;
Roof, road, and river — all were white,
Men moved benumbed by day, — by night
The boldest durst not bivouac,
When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac.
When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac
We scarce could stem his swift attack ;
A halt, a cheer, a bugle-call, —
Like wild cats they were up the wall ;
But still as each man won the town
We tossed him from the ramparts down,
And when at last the stormers quailed
And back th' assailants shrank assailed,
Like wounded wasps, that still could sting,
Or tigers, that had missed their spring.
They would not fly, but turned at bay.
And fought out all the dying day.
Sweet saints ! it was a crimson track
That Andre left by Pont-du-lac.
When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac,
Said he, ' A troop of girls could sack
This huckster town that hugs its hoard
But fears to face a warriors sword.'
It makes my blood warm now to know
How soon Sir Cockerel ceased to crow,
And how 'twas my sure dagger-point
In Andre's harness found a joint.
lOO
For I who now am old was young,
And strong the thews were, now unstrung,
And, deadly though our danger then,
I would those days were back again ;
Ay, would to God the days were back
When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac.
III.
HAY-TIME.
Hey, lads ; ho, lads ;
Why are you so slow, lads ?
Darkly the shadows creep over the day ;
The oxen all bellow,
The sunset's all yellow,
Rain is a-coming to ruin the hay.
You mischievous lasses,
That scatter the grasses.
Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ;
You pitchers and rakers.
You merry haymakers.
Load up the waggon and home with the hay !
Nay, Joe ; stay, Joe ;
Never slip away, Joe ;
Must you be tied like a sow by the leg ?
While you are a-drinking
The sun'll be sinking.
Work must be done before tapping the keg.
You mischievous lasses,
That scatter the grasses.
Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ;
You tossers and takers.
You merry haymakers,
Clear the Four-Acres, and home with the hay !
HAY-TIME loi
Soa, ' Dobbin ' ; woa, ' Dobbin ' ;
'Tisn't time to go, Dobbin,
Wait till the waggon's heaped higher than now ;
At home, in a minute
You'll have your nose in it,
Grudging a morsel to Grizzle, the cow.
You mischievous lasses.
That scatter the grasses,
Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ;
You pitchers and rakers.
You merry haymakers,
Load up the waggon and home with the hay
I
Fie, Molly ; why, Molly,
Clamour so, and cry, Molly,
' Pudding a spoiling and pies getting cold' ?
You ninny, to grumble
When thunderstorms rumble ;
There's the first drop as you dawdle and scold.
You mischievous lasses,
That scatter the grasses.
Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ;
You tossers and takers,
You merry haymakers.
Clear the Four-Acres, and home with the hay !
Rough, Johnny ? Stuff, Johnny !
Never mind a cuff, Johnny,
She'll come a-coaxing you soon by the barn ;
You catch her and kiss her.
There'll none of us miss her,
Dick'U be singing or Jock at his yarn.
You mischievous lasses,
That scatter the grasses.
I02 HAY-TIME
Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ;
You pitchers and rakers,
You merry haymakers,
Load up the waggon and home with the hay !
Oh, Gaffer ; go. Gaffer ;
Don't worry so, Gaffer ;
Off to the Missis, you hinder us here ;
Just hurry and tell her
To fetch from the cellar
Prime of the cider and best of the beer.
You mischievous lasses.
That scatter the grasses,
Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ;
You tossers and takers.
You merry haymakers,
Clear the Four-Acres and home with the hay !
Quick, lads ; thick, lads.
Pile it on the rick, lads.
Neatly and nattily comb it away ;
And show me to beat it,
When we can complete it.
Neater or sweeter or wholesomer hay.
You mettlesome lasses,
That clatter of glasses
Calls you to supper, go make yourselves gay ;
You shakers and rakers.
You jolly haymakers,
Lustily strike up the song of the hay !
I03
IV.
TIT FOR TAT.
Chaffinch and Linnet and Sparrow,
You that have chosen my field for your nests
Over its jung-le of foxtail and yarrow,
Hear what I promise my guests.
Safe shall you be from all furry
Quadrupeds hungrily roaming for prey,
Safe from the urchins who harry or hurry
Hens getting ready to lay.
All the day long at your leisure
Lying-in beds shall you fashion at ease ;
Mosses and thatches I yield to your pleasure.
Buds you may pluck from my trees.
Flower of my garden and fruitage —
Worm that is luscious and succulent slug —
Seeds never grudged though I watch their up-
rootage —
Nestage in box-bushes snug —
Crumbs set apart from my table,
Largesses warranted never to fail —
Wealth of the kitchen and warmth of the stable —
Water in saucer and pail —
Thickets at will for your quarters —
Meadowland-forage and granary-spilth —
Grace of my sons and the smile of my daughters —
Tithe unabridged of my tilth —
All of such bounty I proffer.
Board, bed, and lodging, and all of it free,
If with reciprocal trust to my offer.
Dear little birds, you agree.
I04
First, though the eyes of a stranger
Come not a-nigh you to vex and affright,
My daily visit you'll deem not a danger.
Chirruping only delight
When, with a gentle removal
Pushing the branches asunder, I peep
Into your soft little beds at the oval
Shells where your embryos sleep ;
Ay, or when feathered they linger
Now but a day after nurture of weeks,
Should I essay to allure with a finger
Gaping of wide yellow beaks.
Next, — and a strict stipulation :
This you shall keep on the faith of a bird, —
Morning and evening in joint jubilation
All of your songs shall be heard.
Morning and evening in chorus
Ringing in rapture around and above.
Singing to earth and the heaven that is o'er us,
Love in requital of love.
V.
BULL POINT.
Free, free at last from bleak duresse,
And Winter's weary listlessness.
The meadows decked in merrier dress
Away their sables fling ;
To-day the world's all wonderment.
And bird-throats half with rapture rent
Acclaim the first, fresh, innocent,
Surprise and smile of Spring.
BULL POINT los
But not to-day the fields for me
Whose buds still shiver on the tree ;
This basking rock that cleaves the sea
Stores more of April's sun.
Here all a noontide hour I lie,
Content to scan the cloudless sky
Or watch the shining ships go by
And count them one by one.
One constant course the steersmen take
Alternate in the leaders wake,
Dumb glides the barque, its followers break
Through louder lanes of foam,
And, as their labouring engines pant,
Off skims the startled cormorant,
And gulls with ivory wings aslant
Inlay the heaven's blue dome.
O laggard barque 1 O slugabed !
For all your bellying canvas spread,
No longer in the line you led
You boast the pride of place ;
Fast, faster, as you drift forlorn,
With iron nostrils snorting scorn
In turn is every rival borne
Far past you in the race.
Now all are gone ; a hush profound
Ensues as of enchanted ground.
Save only one continuous sound
Which no man's tongue may tell,
Which none but twain can weave for us
In measures multitudinous,
To music of Elysium thus, —
The Sea and the Sea-shell.
io6 BULL POINT
The quivering brine's a silken sheet
A-glitter as with August heat,
The sands its winking wavelets meet
Like polished silver glow,
And sunken in pellucid green
Of cool clear pools the rocks between
Are lengths of lazy seaweed seen
Soft-swaying to and fro.
Beneath me, huge and bare the ledge
That rakes the air with ragged edge,
Then plunges, like a giant's wedge,
From glory into gloom :
Above, in haunts of winter rain,
Which ivy drapes or lichens stain,
With shyly smiling buds again
The sea-pink stars the combe.
0 glorious headland of the West,
Of all her headlands lordliest,
Illimitable from thy crest
The broadening Channel seems,
The Bull's horns fiercely toss the spray,
The Death-rock frowns beyond the bay.
And mistier Hartland far away
Conceals a coast of dreams.
1 gaze and gaze — the swallows sweep
Close by me, close the conies creep.
They take my trance for death or sleep,
So carelessly they roam ;
Fain would I linger on, but lo !
The sun dips, chill the sea-airs blow,
'Tis time to rise and saunter slow
By inland paths for home.
I07
VI.
A WILTSHIRE SCENE.
Old Friend, while twenty years and more
Have, fleeting, left our temples hoar,
How many a morning holiday,
When all adust the township lay,
Our feet have trod the airier way
To Rockley Wood !
In Rockley Wood a pasture lies,
Lawn, opening only to the skies.
So close its columned warders cling ;
A fearless song the finches sing
To careless squirrels listening.
In Rockley Wood.
But climb the down and lo ! displayed
The hoarded glory of the glade.
Those miser pines such store untold
Of budding buttercups enfold.
The young year's gallant gift of gold
To Rockley Wood.
There, when October suns expire.
The fading foliage turns to fire,
As, rivalling the dying rays,
Light thrills to light, blaze answers blaze,
With hues that blind you as you gaze
On Rockley Wood.
Light thrills to light and dies away.
But out the conies frisk for play,
io8 A WILTSHIRE SCENE
Or sit, upreared, in voiceless talk
Till alien sounds the conclave balk,
And back they scurry to the chalk
Of Rockley Wood.
Too brief, poor things, your happiness ;
Too soon the eager foe will press
To make those glancing scuts their mark ;
O day of death and terror ! Hark !
The sudden gun, the short, sharp bark
In Rockley Wood.
But hence, ill-omened thought of death !
'Tis life to breathe the down's rich breath,
And all an idle morning lie
On couch of silk-soft euphrasy,
Or milkwort mirroring the sky
Of Rockley Wood.
The down— that ere the summer's gone
Will yet another livery don,
Blue scabious, bluer harebell, blent
With myriad tress of tasselled bent
And rockrose, all the parched ascent
From Rockley Wood.
The down — while yet you dream — a-thrill,
As yonder racers round the hill :
Bright beauties slim and debonair.
They snuff the breeze, they tread on air,
Mad for a long, strong gallop there
By Rockley Wood.
And as their lissome pasterns pass
Up starts the plover from the grass,
I
log
The hare's afoot, the hawk's astir,
And pairing partridges defer
Their converse sweet and downwards whir
To Rockley Wood.
Shall we with them, or lingering stay
Till vesper shadows darken day
And shepherds rise and plodding slow
With bustling Prince and Keeper go
To fold the full-fed flock below,
Nigh Rockley Wood ?
Yon cottage-fires for them anew
Raise not to heaven those spires of blue ;
This hut's their home, that camp of straw
Will shield the sheep though sharp and raw
The winds of evening westward draw
To Rockley Wood.
They go, and dumb grow down and dell,
And hushed the day-long-tinkling bell ;
The moon is up ; clear-scarped and white,
The chalk-track glistens in her light ;
'Neath moon and star we bid good night
To Rockley Wood.
VII.
FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM MORTIS
TERRORE CARENTEM.
As down Time's deepening current we descend,
And nigher know its end.
Though slow the moments, faster speed the years,'*
And, deafer though our ears.
They hear beyond the verge of life's last tract
The roaring cataract
no FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM ^
Louder and ever louder, and our gaze ,
Can pierce the distant haze l|
To one point where the vessels we have known
And cherished as our own,
Though trim to view and staunch as heretofore,
Vanish and are no more.
That wonder of the waters, glorious.
What lights its lamps for us !
And answering what gay music from its deck
We dreamed not aught could wreck
Our pilot so securely moving on,
When suddenly 'tis gone !
Then in a moment all the world seems changed,
Ahen, aloof, estranged ;
The comfort and the splendour of the sun
Fast fade, and one by one
The clouds loom dull and leaden, and the breeze
Is choked amid the trees ;
If in their branches any note is heard,
'Tis but the mocking-bird,
And in the thick mute mist we lose all heart
To steer by any chart,
So close the unknown ocean and so poor
Our vision once so sure.
' For all men 'tis appointed once to die' :
The sentence seemed to lie
On others, not on us, till this man died ;
Now shattered is our pride,
And nowhere know we safety, as our bark
Drifts down into the dark.
' Nay, if to-morrow comes imperious Death,'
The rebel in us saith,
' To eat and drink were better while we may ;
The children of a day
MORTIS TERRORE CARENTEM iii
Should eke the daylight out with song and feasts,
Nor heed the fabling priest's
Assurance of some after counterpoise
To earth's relinquished joys ;
For life and death are blind lots drawn by chance,
The bars of circumstance
A cage, wherein with self-inflicted pain
We bruise ourselves in vain ;
Better be first to clutch the richest bone
The keeper's hand has thrown,
Or on our fellow-captives better still
To work our wild-beast will :
Though virtue spangle the romancer's page.
Vice is our heritage,
And powers unseen with irony malign
To each his share assign ;
The headlong venture on a hope forlorn
Of vanity is born ;
The reddest murder stains not midnight-time
With more essential crime
Than hate, inert, 'neath interposing ice
Of saving cowardice :
The wisest he who revels out his span
With cup and courtesan,
By prudence, only, fettered, not by awe
Of superstition's law :
Truth is not, faith is folly, love is lust,
Man's doom is "dust to dust" ;
Better to pluck life's roses, while remains
Warm blood within our veins.'
Hush, voice ignoble ! worse were lawless sense
Than chill indifference :
What though the ancient mystery of Will
And Fate elude us still,
112 FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM
And they that on their voyage farthest go
Know best that least they know ?
What though, like any fool foredoomed to err,
The sage philosopher
Be impotent to mete the more or less
Of sin and sinlessness,
Of shame and laurelled glory, or, 'mid all
Temptation great and small,
To track each antecedent of the blood
Which stirs to bad or good
Coward or hero, crafty Belial,
Or sweet Sir Perceval ?
Nay, what though, with a vision past our dreams.
Some vaster knowledge deems
The best man only better than the worst,
The last behind the first
A handbreadth only, smiling where we frown
And spurning those we crown ?
Shall man, — because a God's is not his ken
To judge his fellow-men.
Omniscient, comprehending germ and whole, —
Shall man dethrone his soul ?
Enough for us the common wisdom taught
By humbler homelier thought :
To love, to labour, to be just and true
In all we think and do,
To make, if meet, the present's pain at last
Redeem a bankrupt past,
And, for the future, if beyond our scope
Be faith, to welcome hope.
He who abhors the gauds ambition yields
On blood -red battlefields,
But at his country's call or Right's alarms
Alert will stand to arms ;
MORTIS TERRORE CARENTEM 113
Who braving, rather than his own soul's blame,
The lions and the flame,
Bows not to Baal, nor would worship, did
Nebuchadnezzar bid ;
Who, if the crowd be tyrant, with a proud
Disdain defies the crowd ;
Who robs not Naboth, nor at lucre's lure
Unpitying grinds the poor ;
Who clothes the naked, and the hungry feeds.
And binds the wound that bleeds ;
Who loves his kind, and tortures not the weak
Creature that cannot speak ;
This man — who doth to others what he would
To him that others should,
And worships more than any King or Queen
A conscience clear and clean —
Whether a hero's be his shining lot
Or peasant's in his cot.
Has known the athlete's joy whose weakness long
Self-conquest has made strong ;
Has learnt life's purpose better than by rules
Of all the creeds and schools.
Wherefore, when out of darkness beckoneth
Inexorable Death,
Even with the roaring torrent in his ears.
His soul shall know no fears.
Nor overmuch be sad, though at the end
Bereft of every friend.
But, bold for any future, and still fast
Its bright flag at the mast,
Will meet the call, and dauntless though alone
Embark on the Unknown.
8
ADDITIONAL POEMS
I.
THE nationalist's APPEAL.
February 7, 1893.
Statesmen of England, at your gate
A nation kneels to know her fate ;
Bemocked of old, and oft betrayed,
She pleads for justice long delayed ;
Statesmen of England, hearken to her plea :
Make Ireland free 1
Your sires stood first in Freedom's van ;
For that they faced the Corsican,
For that was noble Nelson slain,
For that they smote presumptuous Spain ;
Let Freedom's name once more your watchword be
Make Ireland free !
Your voice acclaimed the patriot Pole,
And him that made Italia whole ;
You could not choose — 'twas in your breed.
Sons of the men of Runnymede !
So now, salute your sister of the sea :
Make Ireland free !
Oh, sharpen not the stranger's taunt
That you but feign the love you vaunt ;
The war-cloud lowers, — ere it descend,
Make your own home-born foe your friend ;
A truce to wrangling strife ; strike hands ! agree !
Make Ireland free !
117
ii8 THE NATIONALIST'S APPEAL
Harden no heart, nor stop your ears ;
Her cry has stirred two hemispheres ;
You cannot hold her as your thrall
For ever ; pride foreruns a fall ;
Unlock her chains in time ; you have the key :
Make Ireland free !
Heed not the sordid-selfish few
Who hug their fetters and eschew
A Nation's birthright ; let them still
For pottage sell it if they will :
Ten stand like men for one who bends the knee
Make Ireland free !
Regard not faction's yell, or jibe
Of witling and vainglorious scribe ;
Each noble cause has felt the stings
And venom of such abject things ;
Steer 7<? by star their bleared eyes cannot see :
Make Ireland free !
Long centuries have brought " To-day " ;
List not, as lips pragmatic say,
" Stand fast and all will yet be well.''
She will not crouch, you cannot quell ;
Leave her alone to shape her destiny :
Make Ireland free !
And deal no niggard largesse ; so
You would but swell the debt you owe ;
Prune not too close your wilding shoot,
Nor grudge it time for taking root ;
So shall it, one day, tower the statelier tree :
Make Ireland free !
119
Free, she will not unworthy prove,
Though all unused to gifts of love ;
Trust her. It is her soul she craves,
And nations soar, when no more slaves.
Blot out old wrongs by one sublime decree :
Make Ireland free !
II.
EXIT BANDY.^^
November 22, 1897.
A TRUCE to all your games to-day,
Put football, racket-ball, away,
Not now the hour for sport and play
But sorrow sore instead.
A friend has vanished from our view
Whom all of our six hundred knew :
O sad Six Hundred when to you
The news came, " Bandy's dead ! "
Muffle your drums, O Volunteers ;
Your shrill notes soften to our ears,
O Fifers ; half a score of years
He never missed a drill.
But ever, as your captain spoke
" Fall in," a bark the court-yard woke
To tell to laggard human folk
Their dog was punctual still.
He loved us all — would favour none —
The world his playmate ; in the sun
Or in the rain to romp and run
His sole, his whole delight ;
I20 EXIT BANDY
Beneath his doleful brow was pent
Indomitable merriment ;
To play with boy or man he meant
All day with all his might.
Was ever cricketer more keen
On our field, or on any, seen ?
Though summer's labour made him lean,
To him 'twas labour sweet ;
You hit the ball, he watched its course,
And, fast as any Manton horse,
Outpaced it ere it spent its force
And laid it at your feet.
His voice would echo sharp and short
From top tier of the Racket Court,
As if he criticised the sort
Of stroke you made or missed ;
So well he seemed to understand
The tricks of every round he scanned,
You vowed him fit to take a hand
(Or little paw) at whist.
In Hockey, Football, less he found
Of dog's delight, though on the ground
He oft would watch with gaze profound
The fortunes of the game,
And, may be, mused, " My legs for kicks
Were not devised or holding sticks ;
Else in the fray what fun to mix ;
This looking on is tame."
Self-constituted sentinel,
Our school domain he guarded well,
And woe to cur on whom he fell,
Though twice his weight and size ;
121
Or, if too strong and big the brute,
For timely aid of stone or boot
He begged us with petition mute,
As due from sworn allies.
Well, every dog must have his day ;
Even you, whose gaiety made gay
Two generations, passed away
Ere ours, whom Marlborough bred :
And when was dog so mourned as you ?
Half sighs, half smiles, the wide world through
Will blend in thousand-fold adieu
When news comes " Bandy's dead ! "
III.
SPRINGTIME.
Spring once more, or the eye deceives !
Such a splendour of crescent leaves.
Such a flashing ot bright-hued things,
Burgeoning buds and burnished wings,
Such a glitter of rain-washed grass,
Such a blue, as the soft clouds pass.
Such a marriage of green and gold
Everywhere out of the opening mould :
Yes, 'tis Spring, Spring's own self, healing
All the ill of winter's dealing.
Spring once more, or the ear's a cheat !
Such a chorus of fluting sweet,
Such a lilt in the west wind's song.
Bees in the crocuses, such a throng,
High in the elms such croaks and caws.
Architect rooks, artificer daws.
122
Such lambs' bleating, and from their pens
Such cluck-clucking of matron hens :
Yes, 'tis Spring, and at Spring's warning
Songs for silence, mirth for mourning.
Spring once more, or the heart's untrue !
Such an ecstasy thrills it through,
Such a magical leap of the blood.
Sap in the vein as sap of the bud,
Such a rapture of hope re-born.
Laughing frown of the frost to scorn,
Such transfigurement, such emprise,
Such shy challenge of love-lit eyes :
Yes, 'tis Spring, 'tis young Spring meeting
Each charmed sense with heavenliest greeting.
IV.
THE MAYPOLE.
A Maypole, you lasses, let none of you shirk,
Get ready your feet for a fling ;
The Master has let off his men from their work,
The Missis herselfs in the ring.
Come Nanny, come Fanny, come Jenny, and Joan,
From dairy and kitchen come quick ;
Shame on you to keep the lads waiting alone.
Run down through the gate by the rick.
Here's Parson on Dobbin a-jogging our way.
And holding his babe by the bib ;
Here's purple-cheeked Butcher, and Miller so gray.
And Jockey Jones lean o' the rib.
Here's Alice, all blushes, the sly little minx,
With mischievous mirth in her eyes ;
123
A palace for Alice not fine enough thinks
Our Dick, as she laughs at his sighs.
Quick, strike up the music of fiddle and horn.
And rattle the tight tambourine ;
Hurrah for our Maypole, hurrah for the Morn,
And hip hip hurrah for its Queen !
V.
WINDERMERE.
I. MORNING.
Wake, sleeping Windermere,
For ardent dawn is near ;
Like shaken satin, shake
Thy lazy length of lake ;
Awake, and cast away
Thy coverlet of gray ;
Lo ! down the Rothay sweep
Her swans, to stir thy sleep.
And seagulls from the sea
Come, fain to play with thee ;
Lo ! every shining isle
Would smile back to thy smile ;
Wake, make thy beauty one
With limpid sky and sun.
II. NOON.
Laugh, noon-lit Windermere,
With laughing lads that steer
For yonder lichened ledge.
And, eager, from its edge,
Down, down, deliciously
Their fervour cool in thee,
124 WINDERMERE
To lie, anon, and float
Beside their mirrored boat.
None watch but wondering sheep,
Or steers that stand knee-deep,
With jaws awhile compressed
And restless tails at rest,
Or blackbirds that have met
To try a canzonet.
HI. EVENING.
Rest, weary Windermere,
The sun sets, night is near,
And thou art overtired
With sport thy dreams desired
Ere morning had begun.
The passion of the sun, —
The sallies of the breeze
That still would fret and tease, —
The mountain-mimicked songs
Of merry-making throngs, —
The rush of frequent keel,—
The inland-rolling wheel :
All, all thy echoes cease,
And thou may'st rest in peace.
IV. NIGHT.
Sleep, blissful Windermere,
Sleep sound, and know no fear ;
Yon sleepless sentinels.
Thy kindred hills and fells.
Shall shield thee safe and warm
From every forceful storm.
125
Behold, how beautiful
Their mists like new-washed wool
That softly wrap thee round !
Yet watch they, by the sound
Of never-ceasing streams
That woo thee back to dreams :
" Sleep, sister, know no fear ;
We guard thee, Windermere."
VI.
MAY 1 90 1.
Chestnuts scatter
Their white and red.
May its blossom
Has almost shed,
Burnt and brown is
The cowslip's head.
Lilac is over,
Laburnum dead.
O cruel Spring !
So tardy to beget them.
Why wouldst thou not let them
Yet for a while abide our welcoming ?
Round us ever.
As we grow old,
Sorrow fastens
A serpent fold ;
Friends are fewer
And fewer told ;
Courage is crippled
And Hope is cold.
126
O cruel Time !
Bereft by thy bereaving,
What's left is not worth leaving,
Far fainer were we stricken in our prime.
VII.
AUGUST 1902.
Fifty years ago I loved a flower
In a lonely hollow growing.
Of a red unlike all other redness,
Of a fragrance like no other sweetness,
Fifty years — and then there chanced an hour
For the old haunts, and for knowing
If still my Beauty crowned their dear completeness,
Or were but vanished deadness ;
And long I sought and saw it not.
Then, lo ! the old familiar spot,
And there the Glory glowing !
And oh, my flower, the old heart in your keeping
So thrilled, I almost fell to childish weeping.
VIII.
QUATRAIN.
Some, doubting, fear, and, fearing, pray,
And some have faith — thrice happy they —
And some, beyond life's blinding snow.
With Hope for light, see roses blow.
127
IX.
IN MEMORIAM :
JOHN SHEARME THOMAS.'^
Still loftier than the world suspects, living and dying.
O FATAL First of August when I heard
The sadly whispered word
Fall from the kind physician's lips, and I
Knew that my friend must die ;
Must die— though all the strength of Midsummer
Still seemed in him astir ;
Must die— though she that nursed him at her breast
But last year found her rest ;
Must die— though playing at its mother's knee
His babe still lisps its glee.
O fatal day, how all thy prime seemed old,
Thy conquering splendour cold !
How, as I hearkened, at his garden-gate,
The vacant present straight
Seemed lapsed into the past !
His fond delight
In slope and hollow dight
With wilding flower and leaf— his outstretched hand
To point where he had planned
Some fresher grace — the sunshine of his smile —
His wise words void of wile :
All far-off seemed, and, ev'n while living, he
A most dear memory.
Others have loved our commonwealth, but none
With his love, no, not one ;
For it have others toiled— a toil like play
By his long tedious day.
128 IN MEMORIAM
The fame might fall to others, he content
To win it, drudging, went,
And with constraining conscience for his guide
Drudged on and on, and died.
In hour of storm set ever in the front.
He bore the battle's brunt
Unselfish, uncomplaining, undismayed ;
And, asking no man's aid.
With guileless soul and fearless, war's one mode
He chose, — by honour's road ;
Nor ev'n when struck by some ignoble dart
Bore hatred in his heart.
That right might reign, that angry strife might cease,
He prayed, but craving peace
Yet willed the watchword of his life should be
The poet's " Prospice."
O spirit patient, simple, generous,
0 manliest, best of us,
O brother, if with one so pure and good
1 dare claim brotherhood,
Who, free to choose, when nearing Death's dark gate,
Some sole confederate,
Could find in all our host a steadfaster
Companion, comforter,
With whom to face the Terror ?
Oh, he fell.
Our rock, our citadel,
Our King Oak of the Forest by whom all
The other trees seemed small,
Our Greatheart who by great example taught.
Whose counsel all men sought,
Whose very foibles — sunspots of the soul —
Showed more the shining whole.
JOHN SHEARME THOMAS 129
EVn those that could not guess his greatness yet
Will mourn him, nor forget
The man who in boys' eager life had joy
Unknown to any boy ;
Who cheered with lavish praise and loving eyes
All honest enterprise,
But would not swerve to right or left, not he,
For popularity ;
Who gave our Court its flowers, our Field its dress
Of leafy loveliness :
Whose foresight made his comrades' lot secure ;
Who, mindful of the poor.
To those that hoped not wide our portals threw ;
Who built our walls anew ;
Who still, though folly mocked or pride withstood,
Strove for the general good
With passion pure as any altar-fire ;
And age but fanned it higher.
.
The old glad air will stir the dreaming down
Above the old quaint town,
The forest-aisles again will gleam and ring
With bud and bird of Spring,
And game and work as heretofore will rule
In playing-field and school.
But nevermore to many more than me
Will Marlborough Marlborough be ;
His presence on it half the radiance shed,
We loved him, he is dead.
I30
X.
IN MEMORIAM :
THEODORE LLEWELYN DAVIES."
Gay laughter, gentle speech ; a brain
To reason's lordship true ;
A soul that flashed back light again
Like sunshine-smitten dew :
Ah ! sorrow's self forgets its pain
In so remembering you.
XI.
A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD.!*
I.
Beautiful home of the dead,
Lit by a sunset of May,
Even thy sepulchres gay !
Spring-blossom laughing above
Dead men sleeping below,
Redthorn exultingly red.
Whitethorn enrobed in its snow,
Lilac as lovely as love,
Irises blue in their bed,
Blue as the sea in the bay,
Blue as the sky overhead, —
Life out of dust of the dead !
2,
Dead ! Is there anywhere death ?
Earth given back to the earth
Nurses the blossom to birth.
Spicing the air with its breath.
A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD 131
Yea, though abased to the worm,
Out of the innermost germ
Aiding to fashion again
New generations of men.
J-
Twain are we ? — body and soul —
Or but a multiform, one,
Interdiffusible Whole,
Ending not, neither begun,
Now but an atom, and now,
After the sleep of the tomb.
Moving, a babe of the womb,
Waking, we know not when,
Living, we know not how.
Woven by Time's vast loom
Into the pattern of men ?
4-
Beautiful home of the dead !
Fitly from such a prison
(Shrouded at first and dark,
Then, as the centuries passed,
Warmed to an animate spark)
Life has been built at last,
Fancy and intellect fed,
Love of the lovely arisen.
Very perception of thee
Out of thyself being born.
Soul from the bloom of the thorn,
Sense from the sap of the tree.
So, from the coffin awoke.
Thrilled through the air and the flower.
Moulded by might of the oak,
132 A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD
Blent with the blood of the rose,
Fused into passion and power,
Lord of his life for an hour,
Man to man's heritage grows.
5-
Scorned is the thought for a dream ?
Were it then wiser to deem
Souls re-embodied shall rise
Swift, when the trumpet shalfcall.
Souls re-invested in all
Olden humanity's guise,
Human, for human assize ?
6.
We but believe, as we see
Infinite sequences ranged
Kin to the dust and the dew.
Mortal, immortally new ;
Not altogether man dies,
Not in a moment is changed ;
Slowly and out of a deep
Peace of impalpable sleep
His resurrection shall be.
So saith the churchyard to me.
NOTES
1 Cf. Pepys' Diary.
2 Cf. Life of Ditmas (Davidson's translation), and for similar
feats of the same Dumas, Me^noirs of General Thiibault, vol. i.
p. 283, which came out in English in 1896.
3 Cf. The Times, April 19, 1892. Some of the speeches of
the actors are imaginary.
^ ' The cry of the bird is taken as an evidence that an escaped
convict can once more live in the forests : and to run away, in
convict slang, is to "go to General Kukiishka for orders.'" —
Kennan's Siberia.
5 For the ' Begging Song,' cf. Kennan's Siberia.
* Cf. Lt.-Col. 'S>-^z}idXn^i, Life of Suvdroff.
~ ' You will take Ismail at any cost. ' Potemkin's message to
Suvoroff.
8 ' Suvdroff, in a transport of joy, embraced Plot6ff, saying :
" To-day for prayer, to-morrow for drill, the next day victory or
a glorious death." '
9 Cf. Lady Burton's Life of Sir R. Burton.
10 Cf. Miss Wordsworth's Diary, April 15th, 1802: 'When
we were in the woods below Gowbarrow Park we saw a few
daffodils close to the waterside. As we went along there were
more and yet more, and at last, under the boughs of trees, we
saw there was a long belt of them along the shore. I never
saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones
above them : some rested their heads on the stones as on
a pillow, the rest tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed as
if they verily danced with the wind, they looked so gay and
glancing.'
11 ' A few days later Dr Gurvich was summoned by Masiiikoft'
'o the men's political prison to treat twenty more convicts who
133
134 NOTES
had poisoned themselves. All were saved except Ivan Kaluznhei
(brother of the young girl who committed suicide on the loth)
and Sergei Bob6khof, both of whom died on the morning of
November i6th.' — Kennan's Siberia.
J2 Written before I had come across Lucile Desmoulins' line
in her scrap-book, ' Ecris sur ma tombe : Elle aima.'
13 I have somewhere read that there are about seventy extant
translations of the Dies Irae ! I have seen only Sir W. Scott's
few lines, Dean Stanley's paraphrase, and a version used at
a Musical Festival, the inadequacy of which prompted this
attempt at a more literal rendering. [This translation was
revised and considerably altered by Mr Beesly subsequently
to its original publication. It was inserted, in its final form,
in the Marlborough College Hymn Book, from which it is now
reprinted.]
14 ' The Days are tedious, but the Years are short " : Crabbe's
Tales of the Hall, book x., quoted in E. FitzGerald's Letters
{More Letters, p. 230), and first seen by me there. July 19, 1906.
15 From the Marlbiirian. Bandy was a dog belonging to
Henry Richardson, Esq., of Marlborough.
18 The Rev. J. S. Thomas was Bursar of Marlborough College
from i860 to 1897. This poem was published in the Marlburian
of 4th November 1897, with the following notes :
(i) The day before he took to his bed he said to a friend,
'I will go on working till I drop.'
(2) Many years ago he told the writer that Browning's
' Prospice ' was his favourite poem.
(3) The changes alluded to, if not all originated by him, were
all executed under his zealous personal supervision.
" Reprinted from the Marlburian of nth October 1905.
Theodore Llewelyn Davies was drowned while bathing, 25th
July 1905.
18 This poem, written by Mr Beesly shortly before his death,
appeared in the Natio?i of 24th July 1909. The churchyard
described is that of Bexhill-on-Sea.
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